Miracles Really Do Happen After All
by Miriamele of Shalott
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. After John Watson thinks his best friend committed suicide, his depression threatens to overwhelm him until he decides to take revenge on Moriarty's web of criminals, forcing Sherlock out of hiding for John's safety. Sherlock adjusts to life with Molly after the Fall and tries to deny his growing feelings for her.
1. 1 A MOre Permanent Destination

**I couldn't wait any longer for Season 3 of Sherlock BBC so I decided to do my own version. **

**This is my first fanfiction so please be merciful. Comments and ratings appreciated. Thank you!**

**I do not own Sherlock in any way. To my everlasting despair.**

Chapter 1: A More Permanent Destination

"_Please, would you do this for me?"_

That voice. _His_ voice wafted into John Watson's dreams, his nightmares, time and time again without mercy, and this occasion was no different. That voice that had become as familiar to him as his own but far more dear because he came to love him as his best friend, as a brother, even when it grated with annoyance, boredom, and oh, yes, the smart-aleck criticism.

_Of course_, John answered as he only could in a dream, now that his flat mate, the world's only and best consulting detective was cold in the ground and could no longer speak, no longer hear. _Of course, Sherlock, I'll do anything for you, anything you want, just please don't do this, don't jump._

"_Keep your eyes fixed on me. It's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"_

_No, no…Sherlock!_

_Like a fallen angel, Sherlock descended through the air, his long coat and blue scarf billowing like a flying bird's wings and then…nothing. _

"Sherlock, don't!" John screamed as he bolted upright, awakened from that living Hell that most called memory. Finding himself still in the twin motel bed with the scratchy sheets and unbecoming duvet, realizing in the dark of late night that he was having a bad dream, a recurring one, reliving the worst moment of his life over and over again whilst he slept. He rubbed his unshaven face with both hands. Fighting a war was nothing to this aching agony of loss, this horror of realizing one's most treasured companion, one's entire life, was suddenly vanished without warning or reason.

The former army doctor could still see him; still see his friend taking that final step toward his death, falling to the pavement before he could reach him, before he could save him. Everything had turned to fog about him as he turned that fated corner and spotted Sherlock lying there across the street, the shock of his dark curly head smeared with red, his ice-blue eyes unblinking, lifeless, and empty. How could that have ever happened with one so curious, so intelligent, so ready to unpeel every detail about his surroundings like an onion in a matter of seconds, just to know how it ticks, just to show off? It seemed impossible, even now weeks later that such a man's life could come to an end. And he was even denied having a proper look at him before the medics wheeled him away, just one moment touching his wrist, desperately hoping he would find a pulse there. He didn't even have that much in the end, just to see him one more time.

If only John had known Sherlock would do this, commit suicide by plunging off of the roof of St. Bart's Hospital, maybe there was some way he could have stopped him, convinced him to rethink his choice.

_Sherlock, why did you do this to me? What did I do wrong?_

But it was too late now, far too late and there was nothing he could do to change it, no matter how much he wanted to or how much he begged the empty air.

Also, he remembered, more clearly than he wished to, Sherlock's funeral, the very sort that he would have hated, the sort he would have scoffed at with people surrounding a body that could no longer hear his friends as they mourned him pointlessly.

"_People don't go to heaven when they die. They're taken to a special room and burned."_

John had laughed a little as Sherlock's words floated unbidden through his head, as was usual nowadays, but had quickly become choked with restrained tears when he stepped dazedly into the small church that stood conveniently near the graveyard in which he would be buried. His friend would have preferred not to have a funeral at all, considering how few people would have attended it without a bitter sense of sardonic humor and an endless string of scornful comments—Anderson and Donovan to name a few— but John took pains to make sure none of those people would attend, keeping it quiet so not even the media circus could get wind of it. Not only did he keep Sherlock's final farewell secret for them, but also to evade his former clients who, before his good name was slandered and ripped apart, would have and often did bestow him with favors and might have shown their respects, yet now would resent the lies, the manipulation, the deceptions he never actually committed against them; they might have wanted to kick up a fuss, thus the need for furtive isolation. If any of them showed their unpleasant faces within a hundred yards he would certainly unleash his military training on them, female or not. At least John made the arrangements as practical and reasonable as he could. It was the only way he knew how to honor him without finding a way to stroke his long-gone ego in neon lights as he would have wanted most. Only he could have performed the latter properly so John didn't even try.

Short, cutting, and to the point. That was Sherlock all over. So John didn't bother much with a vicar except to conduct the congregation and to perform the necessaries.

Inside the Old-World Baroque styled cloister with its flying buttresses, pointy spires, and dark corners that almost screamed a likeness to his former flat mate: severe and harsh on the outside but deeply heartfelt and meaningful hidden in the walls, not many were in attendance, as was predicted, therefore the doctor should not have been afraid to stand up in front of them all, just colleagues and friends, but that was how he felt because he was forced to put into words what the consulting detective had meant to him. And he could never do that. Not fully, not what was so completely coated and filled in his heart like a tattoo, impermeable, and like his lifeblood, essential for living. But he could never say that aloud. Not yet. Instead, John read from some of Sherlock's more favorite texts, mostly philosophical ones concerning the need for rational observation in the world.

Then, after much clearing of his throat to rid his voice of any trace of emotion, he proceeded to utter what the modest crowd were all thinking but couldn't quite say it in such a setting: "Sherlock Holmes was a callous, conceited, selfish prick of a bastard."

Every eye blinked up at him, their mouths wide in shock. They couldn't believe he would say such a thing about a man they knew he was so close to, and at his funeral no less.

"And Sherlock would have been the first to admit it, if he wasn't downright proud of it."

Everyone burst out into sudden laughter, nodding their heads knowingly and whispering agreement amongst themselves. And just like that, the tension broke and dissipated. Who knew that Sherlock could have inspired so much humor and high spirits?

"But," John continued, "He was also the best detective in the world. No matter what anyone says, no matter the rumors or the lies, he could catch any killer, any thief or criminal by only his mental prowess, which he would be the first to say was substantial." The audience, which had stilled, awkward and disbelieving, at the mention of Sherlock's skills as a genuine detective, which were put into question by his greatest enemy Moriarty, now began to snicker once again. "He would catch them not just because he could, as he would have you believe, but because he wanted people to be safer. It even destroyed him in the end. But most of all, he was my best friend. The best man I have ever known. A true hero, not a fake! Perhaps, he was cold on the outside, but inside his heart was warm and caring, even though he would have rather been right than kind."

Finally, John could feel himself breaking up inside again, the grief threatening to overwhelm him and he knew he had to end it or risk falling apart in front of the few friends he had left, not to mention ruining the kind of atmosphere that Sherlock would have welcomed and not mocked. "I don't know why he did what he did to end his own life. But all I know is that I will always miss him, so much. And, damn it, the world will never be the same without him."

Afterwards, he sat clumsily in the front pew and tried to listen whilst the others—Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson—stood and recounted their favorite moments of Sherlock, eliciting even more laughter. Finally, it had come to a close and John thanked everyone for coming, one by one, face to face, smiling sadly to himself as Lestrade took out his phone and showed everyone the recording he made of Sherlock, mumbling nonsense and jerking convulsively, after "The Woman," Irene Adler had drugged Sherlock after their first encounter.

Strangely enough, Molly didn't seem as distraught as John would have thought. The pathologist had adored Sherlock, would have done anything for him, followed him like a puppy and looked at him like he was her whole existence. She was absolutely star-struck and he would have thought she would crumble into a teary mess during the entirety of the funeral, but no. True, she seemed relatively sad but more full of pity than anything else. Perhaps, she didn't love him as much as John feared she might.

But something happened that was even stranger. John felt someone looking at him from afar, and so he turned his head toward the entrance and found a man leaning against the back wall of the chapel, his face shadowed by the hood of his rugby sweatshirt, his legs long and lank in jeans that were too big for him. Right then, the mysterious man ducked his head, pulling the material even lower over his face and exited.

Ordinarily, John wouldn't have thought much of it but everyone of importance was already in attendance. And the media had a tendency to creep everywhere like rodents and he wouldn't bear them disturbing him here of all places, now of all times. Moreover, there was something else, something that was niggling at him about that unnamed character. Something was out of place but he couldn't quite place it. If only Sherlock were here…no. Not here. He shook his head to free those wishful thoughts.

Molly appeared at John's shoulder.

"Who was that?" John asked her, sharper than he intended.

"Huh? Who?" Molly answered, her brow creasing with worry.

_Please, don't let me be going mad. _"That man, with the sports sweatshirt." John pointed toward the door where the man was standing only a moment before.

"Uh..." she hesitated, biting her lip that was uncharacteristically covered in dark gloss and eyes swiveling around the back of the room. "Oh," she gave a nervous, forced giggle then told him. "That er…that was my n-new boyfriend, yeah. Met him on the…Tube not long ago."

Maybe that was why she wasn't very torn up at Sherlock's death. She had already moved on. His envy and offense for Sherlock's sake was as sudden and surprising as it was strong but he shielded his feelings. Just because Molly wasn't as loyal as he had once thought didn't mean that she didn't care about his friend or deserved happiness. John desperately wished that he could do the same as she, forget and seize the day, but knew that wouldn't be possible anytime soon. He would be betraying the man's memory if he mirrored Molly's flippant attitude. No, it was better this way. Better to suffer in silence than forget and lose all that he had left of his best friend.

"Wow, Molly, that's just…wonderful, really," John remarked with a half-hearted smile.

"Well, you know how it is. I better go then." She flipped her recently-styled reddish-brown hair over her shoulder, giving him a sad smile.

After sharing a tight hug that was more expressive than their words, they parted, Molly heading quickly for the door in shoes more stylish than was common for her.

Looking behind himself to see the others still talking quietly and dreading to return to the condolences and final goodbyes, he followed Molly out of the church into the cloudy day with the scent of rain on the growing breeze. Just as he passed the threshold, he caught sight of Molly and her new "other half," strolling quickly down the curving path that led to the main road.

Abruptly, John came to a stop, his heart doing the same before speeding up. That man, Molly's so-called boyfriend was walking with a staggeringly familiar stride. He moved just like Sherlock Holmes. That over-confidence and those sure steps were unmistakable. John began to run toward the couple but halted short once more. It wasn't possible. Not at all. Sherlock was dead, he felt his wrist, there was nothing there, no heartbeat, and even Sherlock Holmes couldn't come back from death. His mangled body was decaying in a cold, dark place, not there, ready for another case to solve or rude quip to throw to any within hearing shot. And most definitely, he would never go out in public arm-in-arm with Molly Hooper. No, it was just his hopeful imagination trying to mend his broken soul. Well, it was too late for that.

John watched Molly and the man leave. Just as he was about to turn away to visit Sherlock's gravesite to make sure everything was perfect and as it should be for so great a human being, he finally realized something, figured out what had been bothering him for so long.

Why would a man who would wear a rugby sweatshirt and jeans wear highly-buffed black dress shoes?


	2. 2 The Sun and the Earth

**Thanks to everyone who have reviewed and given me support! Go Sherlock!**

**I know it's just elaboration on scenes already seen in Season 2 Episode 3, but the next chapter will have completely new material, taking place after episode 3, so stay tuned!**

**Once more, I do not own Sherlock, that glorious honor belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and of course Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. And as tribute to the latter, I added a tiny Doctor Who reference for all the Whovians out there! Try and spot it, if you can...**

Chapter 2: The Sun and the Earth

"_You told me once that you weren't a hero. Um…there were times that I didn't even think you were human. But, let me tell you this, you were…the best man, the most human…human being and no one will ever convince me that you told a lie."_

At least he was able to say it, just once, his voice a bit awkward and choked, but absolutely devoted. John Watson was finally able to stand there at Sherlock Holmes' grave, staring dejectedly, hopelessly, at the polished black stone with his name engraved there in shining gold letters, making the tragedy unchangeable, making it real, and say the words that he had been meaning to say to his flat mate for a very long time. But they were confessed all too late. The consulting detective could no longer hear the doctor's words. Sherlock would never have listened to them anyway; he would have merely denied them straightaway again with a nonsensical but rational diatribe about there being no heroes in the world. But he could have tried but never got the chance. And that was what hurt above all else, except for the deep agony of loss that would never go away now.

He would never be the same without him.

"_One more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me: Don't…be…dead. Just for me. Stop it. Stop this."_

That man was practically invincible. Sherlock could do anything, why couldn't he do this and come back from the dead? He needed him. If only he could have just repaid him somehow for all he had given him, all the much-needed adventure and puzzles, laughter and companionship. The greatest friend any man could have ever had, and he would never find another one like him, that much he knew.

During the week after the funeral took place, John whittled away all that time trying to forget his pain and all of those memories that constantly pressed against him like a vice, wandering his flat at 221 B Baker Street like a lost mutt that had been separated from the pack, and no wonder. Every time he took a step, there were reminders of him all over the place: his science equipment scattered all over the table in the kitchen—which were now packed away courtesy of Mrs. Hudson, their landlady/unofficial housekeeper—the yellow smiley face painted on the wall decorated with bullet holes for his moments of boredom, his laptop, his riding crop, the teacups they shared, his chair that would now always sit vacant, his violin that would soon be gathering dust, and most of all, his long dark trench coat and blue scarf with the smooth dark leather gloves he knew would be in the side pockets, all spares that were left in the hall closet since his usual ones he had worn when he jumped to his end.

How could they still be there and he now gone forever? John almost couldn't believe it still. The only solid indication that Sherlock would not emerge suddenly from his bedroom in his blue dressing gown, his face focused solely on his latest case, or appearing at the stairs with a sour look on his face when he couldn't solve a particularly challenging one, or a smug one when he had solved it, was the dark depression that constantly gnawed at him from the inside, a huge gaping wound that Sherlock had left behind, tearing him apart and driving him mad at the same time. More often than not, he could almost hear Sherlock throwing out ideas to the skull that grinned gruesomely from the mantelpiece in the living room, hear strains of violin music as he slept, even half believing he glimpsed a thin dark figure in the corner of his eye. It was becoming too much for his emotions to manage.

He would have given anything to bring the one and only Sherlock Holmes back. Even if it meant coping with his arrogant rants and his experiments involving bloody body parts in the fridge.

That had been a dreadful day for John Watson, to say the least, when he had admitted how much Sherlock had meant to him. Mrs. Hudson, who had noticed with undeniable worry that her last remaining tenant had taken on the more bad habits of her former one by not sleeping and not eating, had practically shoved John out of that familiar black door into the open air, claiming that they needed to visit Sherlock's grave.

"We need to put fresh flowers there," she had claimed matter-of-factly but with a betraying sniff. "The old ones must have withered by now."

"And what would be the point?" John protested half-heartedly. "He'll never see them. They'll just die for nothing." He had to pause for a moment on the stair landing with his hand reaching out for the wall to steady himself, realizing what he had just said was exactly how he felt about his dear friend, and he had to struggle to regain his indignant composure once more.

Mrs. Hudson waited patiently, her wrinkled face sad and sympathetic, small hands clasped together. John glanced at her kind light eyes and red graying hair. Somehow, he could always be comforted by her company, even then. He stole a ragged breath.

Rubbing his eyes then moving to rake his short sandy hair in exasperation, he continued, "He never even liked flowers." Again he caught himself. "Well, maybe he did. Once he told me how beautiful he thought the stars were the night we were chasing the Golem. Perhaps he would have liked them a bit. Of course, he would never have understood the gesture. Sentiment."

He laughed briefly with grim humor as he remembered. Who would have thought that someone with such endless and epic intelligence could have been boggled by social interactions? Or that the earth revolved around the sun.

Without another word of argument, John allowed the landlady to lead him to the street to hail a cab. For the entirety of the trip, for some reason, he couldn't let go of that image of the earth tethered to its path in the universe in relation to our solar system's star. What would happen if the sun disappeared? What if the one thing that made the earth steady and grounded, the one thing that gave it reason to exist, was taken forever? He knew what would happen too readily. The planet would be thrust out into the vast vacuum of space and be lost. It would cease to exist.

His jaw clenched and his hands tore at the cab's seats.

_Sherlock…I can't go on without you either._

The former army doctor gazed solemnly out the window with a knot in his throat that had become all too familiar of late, trying with all his might to not think of the time that a very different cabbie once tried to trick his friend into taking a lethal pill, and he had stopped him, protected Sherlock, by putting a bullet in the killer's heart.

If only he could have had the power to save him again.

At the grave, under a gray and darkening sky, John and Mrs. Hudson laid the flowers reverently on the cold dirt, flowers that John had chosen specifically for Sherlock. There were dark purple and blue blooms with thin stalks that reminded him utterly, with a stab to the heart, of the detective; and then he selected ones that he thought Sherlock might have liked, if that were possible, ones that looked like beautiful stars. He refused to let Mrs. Hudson pay for them at the shop. And this time, he was careful to avoid the chip-and-pin machine. On a day like today, he would have ripped that particular piece of machinery from its hinges and beaten its stupid screen to a pulp. Ordinarily, he would have welcomed the alleviating distraction, but he didn't want to scare Mrs. Hudson.

Then, patting his hand lovingly atop Sherlock's grave, he unlocked the words that had been plaguing him all week.

"_I was so alone and I owe you so much."_

And standing there, ignoring his reflection mingling with his best friend's name along the surface of the glassy dark stone, he couldn't hold in the tears any longer. He let them out.

After sobbing into his hand for several moments, his defense mechanism took charge. The pieces of old armor slowly reforming about himself once more, but only enough to hide the turmoil within. Only enough to survive. He raised his head, nodded once in finality, straightened his shoulders, turned on his heel, and marched away although each step pained him more and more. Ever the soldier.

But his heart and soul refused to follow suit.

A small, faint sound like the crunch of twigs underfoot echoed from a tree that stood several yards away, making John instinctively turn his head…and thought he spotted a figure in a long black trench coat meld into the shadows beneath the branches. John stumbled shortly but shook his head in dismissal.

Ghosts. Just ghosts, nothing more.

_John Watson, you truly are going mad._

Catching up to Mrs. Hudson, he made a decision. He couldn't return to the flat, their flat, not now. Not yet.

He considered calling Sarah at the clinic to try and get his old job back, kick his medical skills back into gear, but hesitated with that as well.

Suddenly, a tall, thin man with receding light brown hair clad in a long suit coat and umbrella in hand like a cane materialized between the sculptures of weeping angels and Celtic crosses, halting languidly in front of John and Mrs. Hudson, and he knew what to do.

Looking into that face with its sharp nose and close-set eyes that were, unbelievably, obviously full of remorse and pain instead of their usual uncaring authority, John could feel a very dark and powerful reaction churning in his stomach like an awakening volcano. The doctor began to shake with mounting rage and fisted his hands together, ready to chin the government official at the slightest provocation.

"What the _hell_ are you doing here, _Mycroft_?" John queried in a dangerous monotone, spitting out the name of Sherlock's elder brother like it was the worst of all curses.

Mycroft frowned, his nostrils twitching. "John, I—"

"No!" John exploded, making Mycroft flinch and Mrs. Hudson cringe and groan once. He felt terrible about the latter but he couldn't seem to make himself let up. "Shut up, Mycroft, or I'll do it for you! You have _no_ bloody right to be here, after what you did to him. If it wasn't for you," his voice cracked so he took a breath and swallowed. "If it wasn't for your idiocy, he would still be alive. Well, I hope you're proud of yourself, giving up absolutely everything for Queen and country, but he wasn't _yours_ to give up. You made it perfectly clear that you weren't actually family. With all those 'old scores' between you two, I reckon you're happy about this."

"John!" Mrs. Hudson scolded in her shock. "Oh, dear."

Mycroft did not react, only gazing at the smaller man with brow furrowed. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, a bit. I won't drop you to the ground right now and throttle you to the edge of your life under three conditions."

One of his eyebrows shot up. "Oh?"

That one syllable in of itself seemed rather condescending to the doctor whose temper flared in consequence. "First, I will allow you to visit his grave once, just this once then I _never_ want to see you anywhere near this place or, I swear, I will kill you. Second, you will pay for Sherlock's half of the rent for as long as necessary, and lastly," John's eyes narrowed as he gathered his courage, hoping he wasn't going too far. "I have decided to go on holiday. A long holiday, and you," he jabbed a finger into the air toward the older man, "will pay for it."

Mycroft's chin tilted haughtily into the air above his pressed and tailored collar whilst his arms straightened out in front of his depthless chest, hands resting together in the handle of his black umbrella. He stared at John, as though sizing him up or simply contemplating his temper. "Fine," he answered brusquely. "I will grant all your requests. Now I suggest we part ways as much as we can from now on."

"You'll get no argument from me."

John rapidly strode away over the cold, gray grass of the churchyard with Mrs. Hudson scurrying to catch up. They hailed another cab just as thunder began to rumble overhead.

_I need a sodding drink, _John thought to himself,_ Or at least a cuppa._

But, abruptly, he was consumed with restlessness and urgency, and he couldn't wait, not anymore.

Once he entered 221 B, John ignored Mrs. Hudson's distressed questions and ran up to his room. With unnecessary force, he packed as much as he could fit into one suitcase, his jumpers, pants, suits, toiletries, and then stormed out of the flat with only one backward glance, his heart heaving in his empty chest. After apologizing to his landlady, he took his leave of the one place that he shared with his old friend, the agonizing reminders an endless scream in his head, before rushing out into the pouring rain.

Getting away was what he wanted most right now, since what he actually needed had flared into supernova and dissipated. Now, the wandering would begin.


	3. The Master and the Servant

**Greetings once again, Sherlockians!**

**I hope you have been enjoying reading my fanfic as much as I have writing it!**

**This chapter only has a bit of a crossover, though not an unpredictable one considering the link between it and Sherlock BBC...I'll give you three guesses...**

**So, sadly, I do not own that or Sherlock.**

**Thank you so much for the comments, please comment some more! I would really appreciate it! Ta.**

Chapter Three: The Master and the Servant

"_I don't have friends. I've just got one."_

John Watson came to realize with a stab of regret, ten minutes into his on-the-spot decision to ride on the Tube, that it had been a bad one to make.

With his hastily-packed suitcase clutched in a hand that was beginning to feel sore, he swayed on the moving train in the lunch-time crowd, feeling utterly guilty for leaving Mrs. Hudson behind so readily like that without much explanation or a proper apology. She would be alone for a while now. Perhaps, he should have asked her to come along. No, it was better this way. That's what this whole holiday was about, getting alone time, staying far away from all those scalding and painful memories of Sherlock Holmes. He would bring his landlady home a very nice souvenir to make up for it, although he knew that would mend nothing. But it was all he could do for now.

But he was just learning that maybe getting away wouldn't be so easy. So far it wasn't enough to escape the reminders, and consequently the reality of his best friend's death that he refused to fully accept.

Trapped in that stuffy aluminum tin can deemed the Tube with the air clouded by the stench of sweat and strong coffee, John thought he distinguished more than once with pounding heart and lifting spirits that a tall man with black hair that curled around the collar of a long dark trench coat, only to have the subject of his hopes turn around and end up someone horrendously different. The doctor's eyes would sting with unshed tears and his heart would sink to the floor every time.

Finally, to spare his dwindling sanity, he practically wrenched open the sliding doors and quickly abandoned the Tube, taking a cab instead to the nearest ferry dock. The last place he should have been right then was London: Sherlock's home, the place that he could have wandered blindfolded and never have gotten lost or even unintentionally walked in front of a moving car, the very lifeblood of his existence, his self-sanctioned post of guardianship against criminals for sake of the game.

There was only one other land he could step onto and feel a little more separated from the ghost of his past and feel a margin of comfort, an island of which had little association and no assailing memories that originated and belonged to the former consulting detective. Without his usual smile or word of thanks to the ticket taker, John paid his dues and headed to the berthed vessel that would carry him to Ireland.

ↄ∞ↄ

Wandering aimlessly about the south of Ireland, courtesy of Mycroft's blood money that he had cleverly acquired with genuine threats, John happened upon the sweeping natural beauty of the Cliffs of Moher. John had never been one for the gaudy tourist attractions, even ones as impressive as this, and yet he was irrevocably drawn there. And he couldn't quite understand why until he found himself lured to the edge of the jagged brown stone formation that had been weathered down by wind and water and sand, right up to the very drop off that few of the camera-toting tourists were eager to approach.

A salt-smelling breeze tore at John's rumpled clothes and his sandy hair that had grown long enough to fall into his eyes, neglected for too long. Although he knew it was a mad and reckless endeavor, the former soldier braved fate and ventured the last few steps to face pure danger and the open air. The sun was rather bright that day, glaring down from its predictable position in the sky, making his ever-present shooting jacket cling unpleasantly to his back. Also, it made it more difficult to look closely at the water that rippled and swelled so far, far below, appearing black beneath the shine. Black like tarmac. And gray like pavement.

His breath heightened but not necessarily from fear. He had always taken a fancy to adrenaline and danger, as Sherlock had pointed out from the first, but this was not the same. Not at all.

Suddenly, he realized that it would be such a simple thing to let everything go, lose his balance, and fall, just as Sherlock did. Extinct in a matter of minutes at most. But in his own case, he would descend to the depthless nothingness beneath the tossing waves, willing to sacrifice himself to it as long as it promised to ease the pain, to cease feeling altogether. A knife had been lodged in his heart and would not be removed, could not heal. He needed it gone, by any means necessary, at once. That was why he had come so far. He wanted to stand so high above with death so near as Sherlock had done. At the very least, he longed to try and puzzle out what he had been thinking, why he did it, why he took the final plunge at all. It made no sense. Without a doubt he knew that Sherlock's genius was for real, he had seen it in action. Some of the things that Sherlock had exposed about John and of others were not exactly facts that would often found on the Internet or even hearsay. The detective _had_ to be right, all the time, in every circumstance, and it would eat him away if he got even the slightest details wrong. Someone like that could never be satisfied with fooling others. And he never cared bullocks for fame.

So why then, why did Sherlock jump? It must have had to do with Moriarty, plain and incontrovertible. But how could someone so narcissistic be inclined to kill himself? It seemed…illogical.

_Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth._

Well, it didn't matter anymore, did it? The ones who could explain no longer had voices to use. And it would drive him further into madness if he tried.

John Watson spread his arms out widely to his sides, closed his eyes, trying to call back his best friend from the void, just to have him near, to hear him reveal the deepest secrets of the passers-by or spout out insults without thought. He was so close, so close to reaching him but not quite able to break the barrier between them. If he just took one more step, to make the hollow inside of him disappear—

Out of nowhere, an angry wind picked up and buffeted him more strongly than he was anticipating and flung him back, crashing him into the ground with a thump, the breath whooshing out of his body and jamming pebbles into his stinging skin. Limbs sore and head throbbing a little from the impact, he sat back up with a humorless laugh.

Of course.

If there was an afterlife, John just received the ultimate reprimand for his stupidity. And he wouldn't have been surprised if it was from Sherlock himself with the heavy hand. It did make him smile at that thought, with less bitterness and more authentic delight that time. Sherlock Holmes in heaven. The blonde man shook his head at that. With relish, he hoped it was true what the more religious believed, just so he could see the look on the thinner man's face to be surrounded by those angels and all that boring innocence, so John could tell him he couldn't be right about everything and snicker heartily over it for all of eternity. Just to be with him again, shake his hand and regain his place beside him as his friend and never leave it again, he would have given anything, even the world for it. If only for that, he fiercely prayed that it could be so. But for now there would be no knowing for sure. There would be no dying today.

Even though he was no closer to his flat mate than he had been previously, even though he failed to come to more understanding of why things had happened the way they did, or to soothe the pain in his very being, he turned away from the perilous rim of the cliffs anyway. And, not for the first or last time, begged for the chance to take back his words from before meeting the consulting detective. He wished it was true now, that nothing ever happened to him. You know what they say: Be careful what you wish for.

More than a month passed and John still could not bring himself to leave Ireland as yet. He had found himself on a different coast, at a little town called Clonakilty where the beach-goers assembled in droves for a day of relaxation and recreation. John was hoping for the same. After vainly tempting death on the Cliffs of Moher, he settled for the relatively calm safety of the sea that was close at hand and not so far below, beckoning him to join the dark unknown. But only in the first week did he attempt sitting and bathing at the beach only to feel even worse on the inside. So he resorted to whatever lamentable kind of escape the motel offered. Including crap telly.

One night, he made another foolish decision. But by some miracle, he was able to gain from it and spin out into the right direction.

John was traveling from one show to the next on the motel's tolerably adequate telly until he came across a film, _The Lord of the Rings_ to be exact.

"Finally, something good," John grumbled to no one in particular. Maybe he could finally lose himself in something far removed from the life he was now forced to live. But at least, in this, he could find a haven from his despair for just a little while. "Thank you, Peter Jackson."

He relaxed farther into his lumpy armchair and watched with rapt attention, grateful for the distraction. And it worked, for a time. Before he realized his mistake.

It was the third film in the trilogy, and the character Samwise was having a gripping battle with the giant spider Shelob. After defeating the monstrous creature, the chubby hobbit ran to the form of his master Frodo who was bundled up from head to toe in a cocoon of spider webs. Sam cradled his friend in his lap, thinking him dead, and freed his face from the grotesque confines.

John froze. _Oh, no._

Why did he not consider this before? How could he have been so careless? John had thought he was walking into a peaceful meadow, only to discover he had been ambushed.

Frodo had black curls atop his head, crystal-blue eyes, pale skin…other-worldly features. Exactly like Sherlock Holmes.

What had he done?

And he knew what was coming. He thought he remembered the next line but he was hoping he was wrong.

Weeping over his dearest friend in the world, Sam looked into Frodo's face and cried, _"Don't go where I can't follow."_

The dagger in John's heart drove home and the dark hollow in his chest opened like a wild beast's maw and swallowed him whole.

He leapt to his feet, stampeding back and forth about the room with feverish steps, his breath coming in gasps as the tears choked his throat, cursing Tolkien all the while.

As a soldier, he had lost and watched more than one mate die for a greater cause but this was different. It was far deeper. He grasped the back of his head and groaned, then threw his arms to the chair, clinging to the material like it was an anchor in this storm. But the agonizing ache of loss and desperation was too powerful and overwhelming inside of his heart and soul to be endured. And he couldn't take it anymore. The pain had become a tidal wave, an avalanche. And it was so much easier to let it bury him alive. There was only one thing left to do.

John rushed to his suitcase, taking out a bottle of pills that his therapist recommended to him, to calm him. And he had taken the advice, like a sod, and picked up a prescription but never actually used them. It was a last resort, and he needed them now. All of them.

As a doctor, he knew what would happen when he took all of them. He wanted to end the pain, end his life. It was the coward's way out but he couldn't find it in himself to care anymore.

Right as his hand hovered in the air above his opened mouth, he heard a squeal from behind and his army training kicked in for a fleeting moment. Turning on his heel, ready for action, he realized it was just the telly making those noises. It was the movie.

Samwise was flying up the stairs of Cirith Ungol, stabbing Uruk-hai like mad with Frodo's sword, growling, _"That was for Frodo!"_

What a sodding idiot he was!

Straightaway, John slid the pills back into their bottle and began to shove jumpers and pants into his suitcase just as clumsily as he had packed it.

All this time he had been brooding and wallowing in self-pity when he could have been doing something not only useful, but worthwhile. Moriarty's men were still out there, the ones that had brought Sherlock low and destroyed him. Drove him to lie and commit suicide, the very cause of John's sorrow and loneliness. They did this to him, to both of them.

Well, no more. He wouldn't be the whimpering, abused puppy in the corner any longer. Now he had a purpose that made his chest swell with something like excitement and a distorted, wavering sense of hope, like someone who had been terribly lost and finally found a familiar path; and he was going to fulfill it no matter the cost, even if it killed him. At least he might be able be reunited with his friend anyhow but this way he could tell him that he tried to honor him, that he was his true friend. He would get the opportunity to die later.

He had never been a man of vengeance. Yet now, he was possessed by a ferocious appetite to satisfy that poisonous, addicting instinct, the need. And he was all too happy to oblige.

John just hoped the trail hadn't quite gone cold.

**In the next chapter, I will begin Sherlock's side of the story. May I do that glorious man justice.**


	4. The Final Deception

**Hello there, once again! Sorry it took me so long to finish this chapter, it was tougher for me than the previous ones. Sherlock's character and trying to put together the puzzle of his fake death were rather challenging. And the Olympics were extremely distracting to boot (_Why wasn't Benedict Cumberbatch part of the ceremonies?)_**

**Not to mention the fact that I decided to do an experiment, channeling John Watson by typing in his fashion: my head three inches from the keyboard and using only my index fingers to jab each individual key like javelins. Let me just say, not advisable. **

**Lastly, in my research I discovered there were basically two schools of thought on how Sherlock accomplished his epic escape but I chose the one that gave more cute moments between him and Molly, regardless of truth. Whether that was really how it happened, I have no idea. Hope you enjoy anyway! Feel free to comment and make suggestions for improvement! **

**I do not own Sherlock, though I love him dearly...**

Chapter 4: The Final Deception

"_You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you."_

"It's time," the tall man proclaimed with grim finality.

The small, brown-haired woman shuddered inwardly, taking a deep breath to gain some semblance of calm.

"Is everything ready? Are _you_ ready, Molly? It's essential that you play your part correctly, but if you can't do this—"

"Yes, yes, I know!" the pathologist interrupted, her eyes narrowing and her chin lifted in defiance even though her stomach was twisting with fear and distress. "Of course I can do this, don't worry. And I did everything you told me to, to the letter. But the question is, can you go through with this? You're the one that's about to take a very long fall with about a thousand possible margins of error." Her brow furrowed with worry and sympathy unintentionally coming through her brave façade.

Sherlock smirked in that arrogant way of his, though slightly more wavering, then tied his characteristic blue-striped scarf about his neck and turned up his dark coat collar.

"I know what I'm doing."

A sense of foreboding began to overtake Molly once more but she trampled it down for the time being. For now, she had to be as methodical and unfeeling as the man standing before her, the one that she had come to care for so deeply against her better judgment, the one that trusted her enough to depend on her in his most dire and darkest moment. More than anything, she had to prove him right, here and now. But what if something went wrong? She may never see him alive ever again…

In a strange, rare spurge of bravery, Molly grabbed the sleeve of Sherlock's overcoat to hold him there for just a bit longer. She would probably regret this foolishness later, but she couldn't bear the contrary if the worse were to happen. Ignoring his expression of irritation and confusion and the nervousness fluttering her insides, Molly stepped up onto her tip-toes and pecked a quick kiss on his cheek. Astonishingly, he gave no reaction but for a slight flinch at her gesture of affection. "Good luck."

"Even if luck were not a delusion, it would still be unnecessary, Molly Hooper." And with that, he was gone, striding confidently—like faking his own death was the easiest thing in the world— out of the lab and making his way to the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital to meet his archenemy, the most dangerous criminal master mind in the world.

"Be careful," Molly whispered fervently to the empty air where the consulting detective had just disappeared.

How astonishing and touching it was when Sherlock first came to her asking for her help, needing only her. Her heart had leapt a little at his delicious revelation. But her heart froze once she learned what he had to do. Molly had hoped that there would be another strategy to solve this, yet there was no denying that there wasn't. Sherlock's logic was irrefutable, it always was. His reputation, his career, his life was in tatters, and Moriarty wouldn't stop, wouldn't leave any of them in peace, until he was able to complete his gruesome melodrama. Not until he was dead. And soon, they would make him seem that way.

It wouldn't be long now. Could she really do this? She simply had to.

_Dear heaven, give me strength. Let it work. Let them live through this, if nothing else._

_I can do this. I can do this for him._ And to her great surprise, remembering who it was for, she felt that she could.

For the next two agonizing minutes, Molly paced her lab with jerky, uncertain steps and counted breathlessly to herself until her time was up. With heart pounding erratically in between clawing up her throat, she exited to the outer corridor and made her way down to the main floor, trying her best to smile naturally whenever coworkers greeted her as they intermittently passed by. Could they see it in her eyes behind the lies of her face, all the pain, the fear, what she was taking part in?

The florescent lighting was particularly harsh that day. It broke through the glass side of the walls and into her eyes, making it harder to concentrate on pretending that nothing was out of the ordinary even though her hands kept fussing with her hair and clenching inside the pockets of her lab coat. Besides, who would suspect? The other doctors had always thought her peculiar and naïve anyhow.

Molly made it to the proper lobby in good time. She took her place at the snack machine, feigning indecision and interest in what it offered, though she saw nothing behind the partition. Instead, she was focused on the reflection upon it of the side entrance, waiting for her cue now that the stage had been set. Her foot began an agitated tapping and she bit her lip in an effort to restrain the swirl of helpless dread and panic. Should it be taking this long?

At last, since she had been listening for it, she could hear a chorus of muffled shouts and flurried movements just beyond the entrance, causing her heart to jump and her breath to hike. Before she could force herself to take action, she stole a deep breath and steeled herself.

_He needs you. _

All of a sudden, the transparent doors were thrown aside and, like a hurricane, transformed the everyday bustle of the hospital into utter chaos. And Molly plunged into it unperturbed and without hesitation. At first, she assumed a mask of innocent curiosity and professionalism as she walked quickly over toward the intended path the gurney would take, the matter-of-fact voices of the yellow-jacketed E.M.T. team assaulting her once she was close enough. She felt ill to her stomach but soldiered on. The deception must be executed with perfection to the very end, else people she cared for would lose faith in her, or would never wake again.

"Severe head trauma, little chance of survival—"

"Molly!" One of the medics, a young woman with short blonde hair and big teeth, an acquaintance of hers, spoke with shock infused in her words. "What are you doing here? No, stay back, you won't want to see this."

"What?" Molly called over the noise. "What do you mean? What's happened?"

"It's," the woman faltered, "it's that man, that detective friend of yours who always comes around here, you know," the E.M.T. finished lamely, already aware of the pathologist's ridiculous crush on Sherlock. Molly had vented to her more than once about him, after all, and Molly had been counting on that for this moment. "He's—he's jumped off the roof…"

"He…what?" Molly gasped whilst the gurney bumped along, straight for her. Just as it approached, she could finally take in the sight of a seemingly dead Sherlock Holmes sprawled unceremoniously on the white sheets of the rolling mattress, dark crimson blood from his head staining them and marring his perfect face, icy blue eyes open and seeing nothing.

Her stomach fell and her hysteria returned in full force and reached an unimaginable peak. "Oh, Sherlock, no!"

_Calm down! _She silently berated herself. _It's the blood you siphoned from his arm not three hours ago. Get a grip. You have a job to do!_

Allowing her dismayed feelings to show in order to solidify the performance but at the same time urging her mind to calm, Molly rushed forward to the consulting detective's side, shoving aside the protests and arms that tried to hold her back. "Let me do this, please!"

Her old triage training kicked into high gear at once.

As she bent over Sherlock's still form with his arm brushing her leg, she leaned in pretending to check his breathing but was in fact discretely reaching inside the man's thick Belstaff overcoat to remove the rubber ball that was taped to the inside of his right armpit, allowing blood to return its flow into his arm before slipping it into her lab coat pocket, patting it along the way as though she were trying to find something. "Stethoscope," Molly snapped to the gawking medical personnel.

The muscle relaxers would be wearing off soon. She had to hurry faster.

Cold metal touched her hand and Molly took the long instrument that was proffered her without a look or word of thanks. Hands shaking and eyes becoming blurry, Molly went through the motions of checking his pulse, relishing that she could finally touch Sherlock's chest without eliciting his baleful glare. She allowed herself to do it now and could breathe again once she noted that his skin was still warm. Even more importantly, discovered that his heart was beating faintly.

But first, she had to hide the way her own heart was soaring high with triumph and a happiness that was so vast it was almost painful. That was when, after straightening her back, the tears began to flow shamelessly down her face, creating the desired effect. The medics assumed she was expressing her sorrow for a lost friend when, in actuality, it was the outcome of sheer and all-consuming relief that had gripped her. She concealed her mouth with her hands just in case a smile escaped her caution.

"Nothing?" A male nurse inquired from behind.

Molly shook her head solemnly as more tears cascaded down.

After the others expressed their condolences for her loss, one of them suggested attempting resuscitation, and once again Molly received a jolt of fright.

The older male technician gave made the announcement that was required. "No use. Fell from the very top floor, he did. Took the worst to the head. He's not coming out of that. Sorry, Molly."

With eyes full of pity, the blonde medic turned to Molly. "If you can't be the one to…take him then—"

"No, no!" Molly contradicted bluntly, knowing that the only way Sherlock's brilliant master plan could come to fruition would include removing him to the privacy of her own morgue, finalize faking the records, and then sneak him out. "I—I hate the thought of him lying there, that I have to…but it would be much worse if anyone else took him out of my hands, you know, it wouldn't feel right to me…I'll take him now."

Disregarding their placating comments and comforting gestures, the pathologist reverently closed Sherlock's eyes for him and lay his back straight onto the cot and lifted his arms so that they rested parallel to his body. Then, refusing any aid from the others, she made her excruciatingly slow way to her morgue, knowing that she would be the only one on shift today, and she made sure of it beforehand. Now and then, she would be alone down a hallway and she dashed ahead as fast as she could push the tall man, quietly making assurances and throwing out questions and receiving harrumphs in response. She never thought that condescending trademark grunt of his could sound so beautiful. "Just hold on."

Once inside the cold room filled with white tiles, stark stainless steel, and lifeless bodies, Molly made certain no one was around then returned to Sherlock's side, shivering slightly at the red that streamed across his high cheek bones and began to dry. "I think you can get up now, if you can. You might still be weak from the medication so be extra careful."

"Of course, I will," Sherlock mumbled, annoyed with her obvious conclusion.

Well, same old Sherlock. Some things never change.

The latter blinked rapidly and flexed his limbs, getting a feel for his condition, before gingerly sitting up. Whilst he turned his body sideways, preparing himself to ease off the gurney, Molly opened up a low, out-of-the-way cupboard and pulled out a satchel that she had brought from home. She had come prepared at least. Sherlock was pleasantly amazed at her foresight and thoughtfulness.

Just as she dropped the bag onto the floor of the loo, Sherlock realized with a shock that something was very amiss with his favorite pieces of clothing. Gaping down at his neckline, he said with difficulty, "There's blood on my scarf…and my collar."

He sounded…disturbed. His eyes were wider than usual and his hands trembled a little and hovered uncertainly with hooked fingers.

Was Sherlock Holmes actually shedding his chink-less iron composure? Feeling effects of emotions? The world was coming to an end for sure. Perhaps at any other time, she would have wanted to make some cheeky jibe but couldn't find it in herself when her heart was aching so much.

And that was when Sherlock lilted awkwardly to one side like a tree struck down.

Molly hastened to him and grasped his arm. Sherlock visibly snapped back to his usual self with a small shake of his head, his chin regaining its proud tilt and ever-observing concentration. Nonchalant and in control once again. Molly sighed.

"Here give them to me. I'll let them soak until we leave." Without waiting for him to do it himself, she untied the scarf from his neck and helped him out of his coat without a single protest from him, to her utter bewilderment. Then, after gently placing them in a water-filled sink, she guided him to the toilet. "Now for the rest of you."

"I'm fine, absolutely fine. I can take care of myself," Sherlock asserted—a half-hearted stab at salvaging his belittled dignity. And, as predicted, she chose to ignore him.

Before long, Molly had the world's only consulting detective bowing beside a faucet with warm water flooding the porcelain basin below, the echo of splashes reverberating off the close-set walls. Applying a clean cloth from her lab, she scrubbed at Sherlock's pale neck and face then afterwards moved to his hair, her hands lingering over his smooth skin and his soft dark curls. Unable to help herself, a pleasurable tremor ran up her spine and her stomach quivered all the while. He did nothing, said nothing; he merely hung his head with eyes closed and mouth turned down at the corners, his long white fingers clutching at the sides until the stream turned from pink to see-through.

Quickly, she finished up and handed the tall man a bunch of disposable towels so he could wipe himself dry.

"I had to steal you a disguise, so I hope you appreciate it," Molly stated, pointing at her black satchel on the shiny tiled floor. "Change so we can leave before anyone comes." She closed the door of the loo then stood watch on the other side. "I must say, I can't believe this 'Homeless Network' of yours actually came through." As she spoke, she wrung out Sherlock's favored accoutrements and set them aside to dry.

Sherlock's attractive baritone seeped through the barrier between them. "Of course they did. I know the dependability of my own resources."

Molly rolled her eyes affectionately before becoming serious once again. "I'm just grateful is all…"

Once Sherlock reentered the lab, he was clad from head to foot like a surgeon with lab coat, scrubs, and face mask ready to obscure the recognizable attributes that had been decorating countless newspapers and magazines for months now. He fit the part of a doctor easily and with finesse. He could even fool John, though if he could see Sherlock now, the complaints would fly.

"I picked blue."

"What?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

"I chose blue scrubs for you because...I've noticed you like blue," she stuttered, feeling her neck heat with color.

For a minute, Sherlock said nothing just looked at her with that scrutinizing gleam in his eye though with something inscrutable hidden deeply within, more than mere confusion. Molly swallowed loudly.

Then the moment was over and he returned to adjusting said blue uniform as though nothing had happened. "Are the files and death certificate falsified?" he queried, all business now, his demeanor back to normal. As normal as Sherlock could get, that is. "Everything's taken care of, no evidence left behind?"

"Yes, all of the above is done, I made sure of it, Sherlock. I promise." How easily submission took over her when it came to this demanding man.

Sherlock nodded once and scooped up the bag that had once contained the surgeon's uniform. After packing up his remaining clothes and tightening the mask in position, they then proceeded to the hallway and descended to the street on the other side of the hospital where they exchanged the lab coat for an unremarkable old jacket she had picked up from the lost-and-found collection and left the scene of death behind without a single hiccup.

**Side note: Yes, I realize Sherlock is not squeamish whatsoever when it comes to blood (Hound of the Baskervilles episode as indication) however he wasn't wearing his coat or scarf at the time so I figured he was rather sensitive about those possessions. And, coming so close to death, it is possible he might have freaked out for half a second...**


	5. The Advantage of Feelings

**This is the result of my two-day sickness so hopefully it makes sense and is grammatically comprehensible. **

**As ever, I do not own Sherlock BBC in any way. But if they don't hurry up with Season 3, I may change my tune on that. Be afraid Gatiss and Moffat, be very afraid...**

**If you have any constructive criticism or compliments, please review! It would really make me very happy. I know it's rather long and I have a tendency to be wordy, but I'll try and remedy that, on both counts, in future.**

**Angst and cute fluff warning!**

Chapter 5: The Advantage of Feelings

"_All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage."_

Sherlock quickly realized from the beginning that things he had never fully considered about Molly Hooper's everyday life were different than he would have expected, though he would never have openly admitted that humiliating fact to anyone, let alone to Molly herself.

After taking a rather longish trip on the Tube, which was quite boring but for the occasional interesting deduction he made from the other riders and the undercurrent of excitement of being on the run and haphazardly disguised, he and the pathologist disembarked onto a section of London that was farther away than he was used to. By the less pronounced skyscrapers and the interspersed ground-floor homes, he knew it could only be a residential part of town. Obviously. But why would they be coming here?

They walked side-by-side for a while without exchanging a word or glance until, to the consulting detective's surprise, they reached a cozy, cheerful-looking cottage with white siding and wrought-iron fence crammed between two archaic red bricked houses. Molly approached the gate, retrieved a ring of keys, unlocked it, then passed through with Sherlock following close behind. With the unobscured sun overhead waning toward the afternoon, they tread through an adequately-sized garden which was in a somewhat bedraggled state with its untrimmed hedges, flowers and vegetable patch gone wild, and a nefarious weed here and there; inference: Molly tried tending to the needs of the greenery but was sorely lacking in sufficient skills and time required for proper care.

But why a house? If Sherlock had spared a thought to it, he would have guessed that she would have had a flat closer to the city. At once, the wheels of Sherlock's brain began to whir with the puzzle. The pathologist would not have been able to afford a full-sized house this close to London nor would she have thought it either convenient or remotely essential to her needs. In fact it was rather impractical. Family's shared home? Sherlock quickly shot the thought down. She would not involve her family when it came to keeping his secret, especially since she seemed less in touch with them than ordinary people, if she even had any. Recently, she had vaguely referred to one to prove a point when he was using her lab—ah, that was it! By the time they crossed the threshold, Sherlock had the mystery solved.

"Your father was certainly very generous to you in his will," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly as Molly began to turn on the hall lights.

Suddenly, she stopped dead and spun to face the tall man, her brown ponytail whirling onto her shoulders and brown eyes wide. "How did you know?"

"You mentioned your father the other day. Cancer. I presume he left you this extravagant affair in hopes that you would fill it with a family of your own. You were his favorite."

Molly blinked up at him. "Erm…I don't know about that, really, but he did leave me the house. It seems he bought it after he got the diagnosis. Children though? He must have had higher hopes for me than I could ever manage, I'm afraid. Ever the optimist…" She took a deep breath then turned away to put down her purse and remove her shoes.

"Hmm, perhaps, but the rest of your family was none too happy about the living arrangements."

Even from behind, Sherlock could tell when Molly winced at his discovery. "You could say that." She cleared her throat then resumed, "I'll give you a quick tour, if you like."

Sore subject then. For the present, Sherlock allowed her none-too-subtle evasion to slide. Guiding him down a long wide hallway with pale blue walls that linked all the various parts of the cottage together, Molly briefly showed him the sitting room with its beige sofa, floral-decorated armchairs, and hearth with its elegantly-designed moldings then proceeded to the kitchen where the old-fashioned cabinets, counter, and table were at odds with the up-to-date conveniences. On approaching the other wing of the house, Sherlock found himself restraining her.

"No need showing me more, Molly." Sherlock was about to touch her arm to prevent her from going farther but thought better of it and shoved them into the pockets of his blue scrubs instead. "I'm not going to take over your bedroom as well. I can crash on the sofa for the time being."

"I—Well it's really not necessary for you to—"

"I think it is."

"No, what I mean is…what I'm trying to say is there are two bedrooms."

It was Sherlock's turn to stare, his eyebrows quirking up. "But surely there's no bed in it."

"There is," she answered with a small smile. "My family may be angry with me, but my sister does stay here once in a while when she's having a row with her boyfriend. More often than you'd think."

A bubble of poisonous fury burned inside of him, making his body rigid and his fists and teeth clench involuntarily. "I'm sorry she treats you that way." What made him react that way, and so strongly? He must be getting soft…

Again taken off guard, Molly glanced up into those vivid eyes of his that could always heighten her senses and emotions even though they were more often calculating than capable of mirroring her adoration. "But don't worry. I already told her my place is off limits for the time being…so you should be safe."

"Oh, thoughtful move," Sherlock muttered. "Those media magazines must be hers then." _Too much rubbish for Molly's style and sweet nature._ Every available space was occupied by medical books and journals or the occasional novel but nothing as idiotic as the entertainment world gossip. No, that was brought in by another party. He should have known. Moreover, sniffing the fake fruity scent in the air meant to cover up odors and the grainy gravel-like substance noticed on the carpets, there was another resident yet to be introduced to him. "All right then," he conceded. "I'll take the other room. First, you should let your new cat out. I am neither allergic nor bothered by animals."

"What? How—" Molly began to burst out in aggravation before falling silent with a huff of air as she remembered who she was talking to. "Of course you know." She shook her head. "Your amazing intelligence still surprises me sometimes," Molly breathed with awe apparent in her voice. Sherlock's brow furrowed at her, confusion and pride battling for attention in his head. Molly Hooper, the naïve pathologist, was certainly becoming more perplexing and more…fascinating than he ever thought possible.

After opening up her bedroom door, she threw her black bag that held all of Sherlock's attainable possessions into the guest room which would temporarily become his. "Okay, I need to go back to the hospital now so I can explain that I'm going to have to take a few days off after…after what happened. With you. And your suicide, that is."

"What? Why? You have a phone don't you? You can call them from here."

"But, it might look less suspicious if I—"

"Don't be stupid," Sherlock cut her off sharply. "We pulled it off perfectly. None of your idiotic coworkers will suspect anything. It's a long trip for nothing and besides, Moriarty's assassins might still be out there, they could be after you just as well."

Those beautiful blue eyes locked onto hers and held. Frozen and stunned, Molly couldn't respond for a minute or two. Was the icy Sherlock Holmes suddenly worried for her? It was impossible, it made no sense. She was just simple, shy Molly Hooper, why would he be afraid for her safety of all people? An array of feelings mingled and began to stew inside of her stomach, making her unable to settle upon just one. Likeliest was he didn't want her getting caught and confessing his secret or that he needed a resource and she was all he had; and yet, with the slightest implication that he actually cared enough to want her off the radar of nameless criminals, her heart swelled and flew with pure delight. Ridiculous, yes, but she couldn't help herself.

She could feel herself nodding numbly. "O—Okay," she stammered breathlessly. Sherlock inclined his head once, finally breaking eye contact and setting Molly free. He retreated into the spare bedroom and closed the door to change into his own clothes whilst Molly drifted into the kitchen to make the call and put on the kettle.

As predicted, the hospital advisors were kind and accommodating, letting her off easily and giving her "all the time she needed to recuperate." Once Sherlock was properly attired in his customary suit, he made himself comfortable in one of Molly's armchairs and clicked on the telly that was lodged in the corner of the lounge without bothering to ask for permission. Without hesitation, he promptly turned to the news channels, skittering back and forth between the various choices until he resorted, for the time being, on the likeliest one. _Come on, come on. There must be something, unless they're all too foolish to follow the big news. Perhaps, I've already missed it… _

The kettle bubbled and hummed contentedly as Molly stood with foot tapping the floor. She bit her lip and stared as the water heated without seeing it or anything else. Lost in her ponderings, she could not fully comprehend the last twenty-four hours in the least no matter how hard she tried. Not only had Sherlock bloody Holmes come to her to confess how much he needed to rely on her to keep himself and his friends alive, which was shocking enough as it was and something she now cherished, but she also had been a major participant in faking his death and committing a crime by falsifying his death certificate. And now, after briefly checking in on him once she heard noises coming from the lounge, she replayed it in her head glimpsing the consulting detective sitting on her sofa watching telly like a normal person as though everything was as it should be, with his recognizable "I'm-thinking" pose in position: his long fingers steepled together beneath his chin, his eyes honed in on the screen. How could he always be so calm? Even though she had witnessed one slight moment of him losing his cool after noticing blood on his beloved scarf, she was still skeptical that it had actually happened.

Suddenly, she realized something with a start, her heartbeat picking up and her stomach feeling as though it had fallen through the floor. He would be sleeping here, _living_ here for the immediate future. _Here_, with only a wall between them, seeing each other constantly, eating meals, waking up, coming out of the loo….She couldn't believe it. How would she ever be able to cope, knowing that he could never care for her like she had always wished? If only she could snuff out her hope completely, but knew from experience that she would ever be the demoralized and irredeemable romantic. He was going to be the death of her…

Sherlock's irritated impatience at what he wanted being denied him from the unreliable news stories was postponed and replaced by curiosity once he felt a presence observing him. He scanned the room hastily, ready to return his focus back to the news until he noticed something that wasn't there before. Mostly hidden from his view, a tiny coal black head and pale pointed ears peeped out from behind the far side of the sofa, bright unblinking blue eyes taking him in. Kitten then; he thought as much, observing the threadbare edges of Molly's rugs and the chewed up pieces of mail on her end tables. The creature reminded him of something but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. They stared at each other as though sizing the other up until the announcement he had been waiting for floated to his ears and snapped his concentration back to the telly, the animal instantly forgotten.

"—_the once-famous, now infamous, Internet blogger detective Sherlock Holmes was reported to have either jumped or fallen off—" _

With thunderous footsteps, Molly surged into the lounge from the doorway at his right and came to a dead halt behind the back of the sofa, but he scarcely heeded her.

A female newscaster holding a microphone aloft, posed before an all-too-familiar façade of a hospital and recounted the tragedy that had become the life of Sherlock Holmes, starting from his consulting career and his popularity generated by John's blog and the newspapers surrounding the Reichenbach painting case, to his disgraceful ruin once the so-called actor Richard Brooke spilled his lies to the tabloids.

Molly's breathing sped and her small hands tore at the beige cushions of her sofa as an anger so potent it tinctured her vision with red and captured her completely, threatening to drive her mad. How dare they? How _dare_ they declare such blatant, blasphemous lies to the public and claim them as truth? How could those two-faced wankers sit there all arrogant and stone-like and accuse the most wonderful genius in the world of committing those atrocities? For heaven's sakes, he _solved_ crimes and put murderers in prison, he would be the last one in the world to commit horrible acts such as those!

Once the woman at St. Bart's was finished speaking, the cameras returned to the man at the studio desk who revealed something that made both Sherlock and Molly's thoughts fall silent.

"_We have just been informed that a man and his wife were present at the scene of the accident and had managed to take footage of Sherlock Holmes' mysterious end on their mobile phone and we are about to show that to you now. But be warned, it is…rather disturbing."_

Sherlock and Molly exchanged glances in sheer panic. What if the couple had filmed something that they shouldn't have? What if their secret was disclosed to the world, to the men who sought them, right now? All of their hard work would be for nothing!

Another young woman appeared on screen, presumably being unprofessionally photographed by her husband with the phone in hand who was following her smiling face as they walked together down the pavement. Her joyful expression shadowed once her eyes skimmed something high above her and across the street. The man turned the lens toward where she was gazing to the tall, gray structure of Bart's Hospital just as the form of none other than Sherlock Holmes, like a dark angel or bird, took to the air from the roof and descended to the street below. Fortunately, the couple was at such an angle at which they could see nothing of the truth, of how Sherlock didn't land on the concrete at all but in a lorry that was idling beside it. But it didn't matter anyway, the moment Sherlock was out of sight, the man and woman broke into a run, making the camera jostle too much to see anything clearly.

But, watching helplessly as the ghoulish spectators screamed and ran close to Sherlock's prone and bloodied body, neither Sherlock nor Molly could be bothered by what those people might or might not have seen, because an intimately-known man with sandy hair and a dark shooting jacket materialized onscreen.

Somewhere in the distance, the kettle began to sing like a fire alarm, like a church bell boding a funeral but neither of them cared.

Both the detective and pathologist stood stock-still hypnotized almost to the point of forgetting to breathe, whilst they regarded John Watson on the telly trying weakly to push his way past the crowd that ringed the unmoving form of his friend and flat mate to no avail. _"I'm a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through please, he's my friend. He's_ my_ friend, _please_!"_ he desperately begged the emergency technicians who began to hold him back but not before he was able to reach out as though to take Sherlock's hand only to take his pulse instead.

Then Molly looked on in overwhelming horror and eyes pricking with tears as John collapsed resignedly to the pavement, appearing like a man condemned. Like a man compelled to behold his entire life, everything he ever held dear, turned to dust in front of his face, and he was left to pick up the pieces. And maybe it truly was.

Abruptly, the scene ended and the news readily changed topics. And yet, Molly and Sherlock remained there, rooted to the spot, unable to move or make a sound for what seemed like decades. Finally, Molly's head shifted woodenly toward where Sherlock sat, his mouth tight and white, hardened into a straight line, and jaw rotating, as he suppressed something that was too strong to be contained, his hands fisting into the arms of his chair, empty eyes still fixed to the screen. Something very dark and hollow was overruling them at the very same moment; and a sensation like falling into a hopeless abyss consumed them. Molly's heart throbbed and ached with pain for both Sherlock and John alike. What they must be going through, right now, separate and yet together.

Molly's hand wandered shakily to her face. John. Sweet, thoughtful John. The quiet presence that never abandoned his friend's side who was always there to apologize for the latter, always there to clean up his messes and try to make everyone else feel more important after Sherlock demolished them to nothing. The ex-soldier who had been through enough for two lifetimes. And now this.

Unexpectedly, Molly's mobile chose to chirp just then. They jumped, efficiently awakened from their trance of agony. And they silently welcomed the distraction. After exchanging worried and perplexed glances, wondering who it could possibly be at this time of all of all times. Molly reluctantly reached into her pocket and retrieved the phone. Her heart clenched painfully once she glimpsed the name on the screen.

"Oh, no," she moaned. _Not this, not now. I was hoping for more time. I won't be able to put on a good enough act after that…_

"Who is it?" Sherlock muttered in a monotone, though he feared she would confirm his fear.

"John?" Molly whispered when she answered on the fourth ring. Rising like a ghost from his grave, Sherlock hovered over, stopping less than a metre away from her small figure. Instinctively, Molly peeked up at Sherlock with faith that perhaps he could guide her in her proper conduct at this pivotal moment, but froze. Her eyes fastened there during the ensuing conversation, completely incapable of withdrawing as his gorgeous pair delved straight into her heart, making it bleed by the terrible misery that she discovered there. They were betraying him. Because, as ever, the whole of his face had shut down, donning that frustratingly cold shroud of indifference shielding his emotions. But the eyes never lie. Even ones belonging to Sherlock Holmes.

John Watson's voice, hoarse and broken, exploded through the earpiece, even as her attention narrowed in to the tall man before her. "Molly? Molly? Where are you? Do you know what— what happened with Sherl—" his words cut short as he took a ragged breath before falling apart completely, dissolving into uncontrollable sobs then they muffled as, she supposed, he used his hand to conceal his outburst of grief.

Sherlock frowned.

A knot jammed down Molly's throat. All at once, her own tears returned with renewed vigor, flowing freely down her cheeks, even in awareness that the subject of their sadness was in that very room with her and standing on his own two feet, no less. Suddenly, she was able to muster her courage and answer the poor doctor without eradicating their fragile plans of life and death and saving the world, but mostly to keep safe one John Watson.

"Yes, John. Yes, I—I was there, I mean, I was in the hospital when it happened. When he…" she choked. As was her custom whenever she was distraught, her own tone began to rise in pitch, "I didn't see it happen but they told me about it."

After recovering enough to speak, John continued in a rush, "Were you the one to take him?"

What did he mean? Oh, at the morgue. "Yes. Yes, I couldn't bear letting anyone else touch him. I didn't trust them enough."

"Will you take care of him, Molly?" his voice cracked. "Please take care of him, for me if for nothing else."

"Of course. I promise I'll take good care of him."

Something unfathomable appeared in Sherlock's eyes at her words, mingling with the bemusing guilt and the dreadful anguish already seated there.

John sniffed loudly. "Did you know anything about this beforehand? Did you know what he was about to do, did he say anything?"

_I'm so sorry, please forgive me_, Molly silently pleaded with him. "No, no I had no idea. Say anything? Well…"

Sherlock shook his head vehemently. "Just…just that he had something to do. That he had no choice about it. But I didn't know what he meant at the time." The detective rolled his eyes in aggravation.

"Something to do? No bloody _choice_? What is that supposed to mean?" John's voice rose with anger. "Why did he do this, Molly? To himself, to us?"

"Maybe it was a way to protect us or something…"

"Yeah, yeah, right. He was too sodding selfish for anything like that!"

"John, please, I'm sorry! So so sorry," Molly cried. "He would never want you to be angry or sad."

"Then why did he do this?" John deflated with sigh. "I know, I know. I just don't know what to think. I wish I could understand. But I do know that he lied, about being a fake. A man like him could never be a fake. He's just not that good of an actor, sorry. I'll always believe in who he is…was," he corrected with a growl.

"I know, I agree. He wasn't a fake at all. I don't know why he would say that. I'll always believe in him too. Maybe someday we might understand."

"I doubt it," John muttered bitterly. "But could you…could you do one favor for me? Could you try and get ahold of Sherlock's things for me? Like his coat, his scarf would be best. I just…want to keep it, you know."

Molly looked to Sherlock, her fear written all over her face. "You—you want his scarf, you say?"

Sherlock's eyes widened and his breathing caught.

"I—I don't know if that's possible, but I suppose I can try."

He thanked her and she vowed to come visit him soon before they said their goodbyes. Right after she hung up, Sherlock vanished into his room without a sound.

Knowing she was being annoyingly intrusive but not caring at all, Molly took a cup of tea and a blanket and knocked on Sherlock's door. Hearing no answer, she barged in anyway. He was standing with his back to her, facing the window. Unsure as to where to stand, Molly shifted awkwardly after placing her gifts on the small oak wood bureau to her left.

"Here's some tea and a blanket. My sister always complains about this room being cold."

Sherlock only grunted.

Taking a big breath, Molly decided she had to say or do something, anything, or a very beautiful friendship might be destroyed if she didn't. She was scared to death and her shy impulses threatened to hinder but she plundered onward in her desperation and dismay. Uttering each syllable slowly and clearly, she "You need to tell him the truth, If you care about him at all. He needs to know you're alive. You could lose him. I've seen this before…he—he might do something drastic…"

All of a sudden, Sherlock whipped around to face her with his arms straight as rods at his sides. Molly visibly shrunk beneath his bewitching eyes that were now polluted with a blaze of anger, dark and terrifying, and his mouth twisted into something monstrous, and yet he was still beautiful in his wrath, like an avenging angel. But she solidly held her ground though her instinct to flee was strong. "Do you think that I _enjoy _this, Molly Hooper? Do you think that for some reason I take some _sick_ pleasure out of all of this? Out of being made a fool in front of the world, my works of genius slandered and made as though they were just set ups to make me look good, like they were _rubbish_? What do I care whether the populous notices me or not?! I'd rather I not get their idiotic attentions, thank you very much! And now I'm stuck _here_, a parasite to you, cut off from my home, my own things! And John! You think I would deceive my best friend, the only real friend I have ever had, for _nothing_?" He laughed harshly and shook his head. "No, Molly Hooper. I understand quite well that I could lose his trust, his friendship for this, and it makes me sick to my stomach to think of it. I _hate_ being separated from him, especially knowing...knowing that this is hurting him..." he faltered momentarily, perhaps pulling himself together? Him? "But I have no other choice. Moriarty's men could still be out there, watching him. I have to stay in the dark or run the risk getting my only friends killed. What _else_ is there to do?" he gave one last shout then fell silent once more, his chest heaving with his lingering rage as it began to dissipate.

To Sherlock's great astonishment, Molly just stood there, looking at him for a very long moment in the quiet. He figured she would have run out bawling by now. In fact, her lip trembled and she blinked rapidly, only allowing one tear to fall to her chin before responding with a tremulous smile and broken voice, "Now…was that so hard?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed with his confusion and fascination. His moods could certainly shift without warning. "What do you mean?"

"Was that so hard, letting your feelings out instead of making them fester inside? Or pretending that you don't care at all? That your feelings don't even exist?"

He scowled. "It's better having no feelings at all. I'm better off." His monotone made her pity him.

Molly just rotated her head sadly. "Oh? I don't think so, and I'm sorry you feel that way. I know that you think emotions are a useless distraction, that they're a disadvantage to you. But, no offense intended, but you never could have jumped off that building without knowing it was the only way to save your friends. To save John. No matter how much you'd like to deny it, they make people stronger. Even you."

Hiding his eyes from her, he turned his head away and decided to change the subject instead of argue with her. Besides, he had to say it. "He'll never forgive me."

Without a sound, Molly stepped close to the consulting detective and peered up into his face once more. "You're not going to like this, but I promise it will make you feel better."

It was his turn to be unbalanced. "O—kay, Then maybe you shouldn't do it…" Sherlock said with suspicion.

Very carefully so as to not frighten him, Molly wove her arms through Sherlock's and embraced him with her head on his chest, hearing his heart beat faintly. For what seemed a very long time, Sherlock could do nothing but stiffen his whole body, wondering what was happening to him. Finally, he reluctantly gave in and placed his hands upon her back and tightened his hold, their heads barely touching. They breathed and sighed as one.

"John loves you like a brother. You may say it's irrational, but we always forgive the ones we love. And he will do the same, eventually," Molly confessed in hush tones.

"The tea is getting cold," Sherlock stated lifelessly. It was all he could relay as he withdrew from her. Clearing his throat, he avoided looking at her with his deadpanned face before adjusting his lapels a bit unsteadily and with more force than necessary.

Just as Molly opened the door to leave, she confronted him for the last time. "If you want to go back to John then do something about it so you can."

Sherlock's stare migrated from the floor to the small pathologist. His sense of purpose and interest restored. "Then I'm going to need your computer."

**I realize Sherlock's outburst of emotion may be a little out of character, but you never know. When angry enough, like finding out Moriarty was pretending to be an actor, he can release his anger pretty easily. But, seriously! Who doesn't want to see Sherlock express some passion, huh?**


	6. Stolen

**Wow, so sorry about the delay! That sickness was a lot worse than I had assumed. **

**Finally, here's the next chapter. I hope you enjoy!**

**As always, I do not own Sherlock in any way. That pleasure belongs solely to the BBC and Mark Gatiss with Steven Moffat. Those lucky devils...**

**This chapter is just kind of Molly and Sherlock interacting while they live under the same roof and time passes. Hopefully, the little anecdotes are worthwhile. And I hope I portrayed the characters with some kind of justice and that it's not boring or pointless. Please review and let me know what you think! Thank you for all the support!**

**Next chapter, I will be writing the great reunion between John and Sherlock so please don't give up on me yet!**

Chapter 6: Stolen

"_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."_

"_No. Friends protect people."_

Three days.

Three days had flown by since that awful day of the Fall. Three days since Molly helped Sherlock safely off of a hospital roof and into contrived freedom, that is to say, to an assumed death. And all it took was a pint of blood, a little use of drugs, one Homeless Network, and the brilliance and bravery of one consulting detective. Three days since her fear became relief. Three days since he paraded into her home and suffered by watching his friend grieve on national news. Molly wouldn't talk about what happened with him. Not yet. There was no point. He had been through enough.

Instead, that night, she had let him be in the room she gave freely to him whilst she watched telly, nonsensical stuff that is. No news though; none whatsoever. The following morning she had gained an astonishment, but perhaps, not an unpleasant one. Upon leaving her own bedroom after having a lie-in rather later than usual, she ran into the one and only Sherlock Holmes in the hall, and he was wearing a bed sheet. And only a bed sheet.

With his beautiful curls, lovely and dark and mussed by sleep, he had stumbled unexpectedly toward her, his hand covering a yawn.

"Oh!" Molly gasped once she distinguished the tall man wearing one of the white sheets from the guest bed like a toga. "S—Sorry, Sherlock." And once she noticed his bare chest peeking from beneath, she asked with a gulp, "Are you…wearing any pants under there?"

"No," he answered uncaringly and without pause.

With that they separated, although with a much more flushed and overwrought Molly than before. Her heart pounding erratically and thoughts heading to where they shouldn't, she vowed to never wash those sheets again before hastily retreating to her kitchen with the pale yellow walls and white cupboards to make breakfast.

Afterwards, Sherlock had come to her once more, asking another favor of her: that she would check on John and make sure his concussion, brought about by the cyclist, was not anything of concern. Leaving him with her laptop at her desk, she had complied, but not without some regret when she had witnessed the state of the poor doctor. Tattered and ruined, the small man had been the ghost of himself; a former soldier who had seen his share of war. And suddenly, he looked it. She supposed there had finally been a battle that had got the better of him at last. She couldn't bear to watch him deteriorate knowing that the cause was in between her walls. Tempted beyond reason, she almost told him the truth then but understood that Sherlock would never have forgiven her, so she kept her mouth shut throughout her visit and check-up, though it killed her to do it. Rather, she did what she had to do and thanked heaven that Sherlock wasn't there…

And now, she was running low on food and she came to realize that Sherlock could use some supplies if he were to stay here for an unknown length of time. Now, with arms overflowing of shopping, Molly fumbled with her keys and somehow managed to unlock her front door. Thankfully, Sherlock had already settled into his temporary home without too much fuss as yet and, best of all, he didn't seem to mind the presence of her beloved kitten, except when she caught the pair staring at each other with narrowed eyes as if they were about to defend their territories. How odd. She just hoped they wouldn't end up killing each other whilst she was out.

But that wasn't the worst of her problems, she realized with a cringe. She just hoped she would be able to keep what she named her pet a secret until he left. And, knowing Sherlock Holmes, she wasn't holding out too much hope, but she could at least try, especially since the embarrassment might send her into her own death. Maybe he wouldn't care to dig deep enough to find out. Oh, who was she kidding? Of course he would, just to spite her.

Stepping past her threshold and trudging down the hallway, Molly heard something strange and out of place: a low voice that could only be Sherlock's, rapid heavy footsteps, and a rhythmic thumping that made no sense whatsoever. She abandoned her bags on the floor before tip-toeing to the entryway of her kitchen. And discovered an immense surprise.

The morning sun was streaming through the window above the spotless sink and sparkled on Sherlock's black curls and his dark trousers as he spun and twirled, dipped and repeated like a strange dance. Molly glimpsed the small black rubber ball in his hand, the ball that had helped fake his death, and it seemed he was bouncing it along the floor and the far wall in some sort of a game. Then she spotted her cat playing along with him, chasing and batting the ball whenever it came his way.

Was Sherlock Holmes amusing himself with a ball and a cat? She could hardly believe it. This must be a dream…

But no; she pinched herself but it made no difference. Molly was still standing there in her coat and shoes, watching Sherlock with a gaping mouth as he frolicked and spoke to the cat as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world. She couldn't help herself, so she began to laugh. The consulting detective stopped immediately and whirled around to face her, panting and hair clinging attractively to his pale forehead, making a thrill course through her at the sight of him. Never would she have expected to see Sherlock in such a human way, and she was more than a little pleased to have been wrong. Trying to act naturally, he pulled at his shirt and smoothed it down.

The cat was pacing feverishly and staring up at them both, hoping for Sherlock to continue the riveting business with the ball.

"May I ask what you were doing?" Molly asked through her last vestiges of giggles. Fearing his anger, she tried to force herself to calm but it was indeed a challenge.

"I was uh…I needed a break to think so I—" he cleared his throat nervously. "I found the ball in your room and I decided to experiment the behavior of your cat. I needed someone to bounce ideas off of anyhow."

"I see. Wait! You went through my things to get that?" Molly gasped.

"Of course."

Molly choked and sputtered wordlessly for a moment then found her tongue again in a burst of anger. "How dare—how could you? My stuff is private!"

Sherlock lifted his eyebrows, pulled a thoughtful face and cocked his head arrogantly to the side and Molly's rage flared even hotter. "Then you should have said something beforehand."

"You wouldn't have listened even then," Molly growled then went back to the hall to retrieve her shopping with a much less gentle hand then returned to the kitchen. "I'm saying this now: Please don't go into my room without permission."

"All right then. No need for you to get so upset," he muttered under his breath.

Just perfect, she thought to herself, before deciding to let it go and not let it bother her...for now. Instead, she turned her attention to the one individual in this house that understood her and would never hurt her feelings. She especially needed to remember him since she had forgotten to feed him breakfast and not give all of her worthless and under-appreciated attention to her enticing guest, and to no avail. "Sher—I mean, never mind," Molly bit her tongue, catching herself just in time before revealing the name of her kitten to the detective. She swallowed and berated herself for being so foolish. "Come, kitty, time for food."

The dark kitten mewed happily, sitting with his blue eyes staring up at her expectantly as she poured a mix of cat food into his bowl that lay in the corner. His loyalty and regard she could count on without fear or disappointment.

Before Sherlock could leave, Molly said, "What would you like to eat? I've got some different things here, I wasn't sure what you liked so—"

"Not necessary, Molly, I want nothing," Sherlock stated without feeling.

"But…but you haven't eaten since you got here. Who knows how long before that?"

"Don't you remember? Eating slows me down whilst I'm working."

Molly grabbed his elbow before he could make his escape, and his piercing eyes snapped to her full of irritation. But hers was greater. "Oh no, if you intend to live in my house, you are going to have to eat at least one meal a day, and I'm not talking about tea and toast. That doesn't count. There is no way that I'm letting you work that hard to fake your death before dying from malnutrition. And what about John? I'm not telling him that you died for real for such a stupid reason! Finding Moriarty's men could take weeks even months, you're going to have to make an exception and eat during this case. I'm sorry to do this but, one meal a day, that's all, and if you don't want to eat more than that then that's your prerogative. But that's the rule." All true, however, it came out more demanding than she had intended due to how much consideration she had put in the selections she had made just in an attempt to please him and refused to be disappointed now.

Sherlock frowned, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her. "There are certainly a lot of rules here."

"Too bad. Now, which meal will it be? Now or later?"

The tall man huffed out a breath resignedly, his hand waving her away as he stalked off. "Now will be fine, I suppose."

"Thank you," she whispered triumphantly to herself and moved toward the refrigerator and began to put a meal together for the both of them, relishing watching Sherlock out of the corner of her eye through the glass double doors that connected from the kitchen to the lounge. He had returned to the chestnut desk that stood to the left of the telly, his fingers nimbly and deftly roaming over the keyboard of her laptop with an expertise that impressed her. It was only a matter of time before Moriarty's criminal connections felt the full brunt of Sherlock's wrath. She smiled to herself and turned on the coffee machine. Suddenly, she was blissfully content.

ↄ∞ↄ

A few more days past and the day of Sherlock's funeral arrived before she knew what to do about it. After discussing it with Sherlock, she felt braver. His instructions on how to act, how to proceed, made it so much easier to contemplate. Just hide in the corner, she told herself, but don't hold back the tears and all shall be well.

Without looking up from Molly's laptop, he steepled his fingers against his lips and announced, "And I'll be coming with you."

Molly was in the progress of going to her room to change then stopped dead in her tracks. "You…what? Coming to your own funeral? You can't! What if someone sees you?"

"They won't if I'm properly disguised."

"Oh, and how do you intend to do that?"

"I'm sure you'll think of something," he retorted and resumed his typing once more. It wasn't a question.

After gaping at him a moment with a helpless expression, she stomped away into her bedroom and shut the door, cursing that man all the way. But she realized, she could get mad or get even. "You want a disguise Sherlock Holmes? You've got it." Without further ado, she opened up her closet and proceeded to dig through it until she found what she wanted.

A few minutes later, Sherlock exited the guest room with an appalled, sour grimace blighting those handsome features with the prominent cheekbones. "These are insufferable. I'm not wearing _these._" He flung his hands out in exasperation, touching the clothes she had given to him as little as possible as though they had a plague attached to them.

Briefly, her mood lightened at beholding the great Sherlock Holmes crammed into the garb of an ordinary man: a rugby hoodie and jeans which fit him well enough, accentuating his biceps, narrow chest, and lean hips. She never thought the reminders of her old boyfriend could incite such powerful excitement again. This man looked far better in those clothes than their former owner ever could have. To her shame, a blush crept up her face. _Stop acting like a schoolgirl! _"I'm sorry but there's nothing for it, I'm afraid. You needed a disguise and I have come through, as asked. It's all I've got so you'll just have to try and adjust."

The detective scowled down at her. "It won't be a problem, Molly Hooper."

"Good. Oh, one last thing." Molly reached up and yanked the hood over Sherlock's dark curly head and produced sunglasses to complete the picture. "The face would definitely be a problem, I think. Keep those on."

Sherlock smoothly perched the sunglasses onto the bridge of his nose and heaved a sigh. "Ready now?"

Molly nodded before leading the tall man out of the house and hailed a cab. Only Sherlock Holmes would go so far as to attend his own funeral. She should have seen it coming.

Unexpectedly, the funeral took place in an old Baroque-styled church near where Sherlock's empty coffin would be buried. Molly made sure to make her appearance a little late and forced Sherlock to stay hidden in the shadows of the far back. But what was expected was how small the crowd would be and how depressing the atmosphere would feel. It wasn't long before Molly had tears in her eyes. At least she didn't have to fake it. She had always been a terrible actress, after all.

But John was the hardest thing to take. In his eyes, his voice, the way he stood, his crippling grief was horribly obvious. And Molly was scared to death that not only would Sherlock be recognized, but that he would have no choice but to notice his dear friend's deep and tremendous pain. Molly's heart felt as though it were breaking in a million pieces. And John's angry and heartfelt sermon made it hurt even more. Finally, the service came to an end and Molly made her escape just as John began to be suspicious of her. Her guilt reached a peak knowing that she was abandoning them all when they most needed her for comfort and the man walking beside her. They had no idea. If only she could tell them. Someday soon, she promised herself, she would, and everything would be all right again. John would be back to normal once more instead of looking like a mottled zombie with a torn soul. He could heal and have his friend back.

After walking out of the church and making their way down the road, Sherlock broke his silence. "What did John say?" Sherlock asked with overemphasized indifference.

Molly tried not to let her sympathy show. "He wanted to know who you were, and, well…" She could feel her face heating up again and tried to ignore it. Might as well get it over with, she thought, there's no reason to lie. "I panicked so I told him you were…that you were my new boyfriend."

"I see." He shrugged smoothly and expressively. "Well, why don't we erase all doubt then?"

Then, to Molly's shock, Sherlock casually threaded his arm through Molly's without another word, as though he were simply demonstrating his affection, as though they truly were a couple. The small pathologist knew better. But that didn't prevent her from being affected by the action. Once he touched her, even through their layers of clothes, Molly's skin began to tingle. Her heart pounded and her throat became dry. He was magic.

_I could very easily get used to this_. The thought wafted unbidden through her head then frustration and anger flooded her for it. _He could never actually love you, Molly Hooper. So stop hoping for it. _Facing the ugly truth at last, she knew she was falling for this man, and hard, but she had to try and stop it before her heart was completely stolen away. Because he would certainly grind it into ash if he ever found out. And she wouldn't be able to survive it, not this time. If only he wasn't so spectacular and beautiful. Even as a brusque narcissist, she was completely head over heels for him!

At least, she could enjoy it now, treasure what little she could get then move on when he finally left. Molly clutched possessively at Sherlock's strong arm and leaned against him, allowing herself to sink into him for just a moment, only a moment, before it was over. And she would once again be alone.

A month passed before Molly began to worry about him.

Sherlock had been working overtime trying to track and take down whatever of Moriarty's associates that he could.

One day after coming home from work, Molly brought home some human body parts and chemicals from her lab because she knew he loved to experiment with them whenever he became bored or frustrated with his daily task. She never thought she would ever be exposed to mixing food and human remains in her own icebox but she was slowly getting accustomed to it though she screamed quite heartily the first time around.

But, this time, Sherlock didn't even seem pleased or even interested in the ears and tongues she had brought back from Bart's. And once Molly peered over his shoulder to see how he was coming along she verbally expressed her extreme displeasure at Sherlock using her laptop for illegal hacking of MI-5 databases. Directly, Sherlock rose to his feet, his eyes dark and on fire with fury, the corners of his mouth turned down. For certain, he looked absolutely menacing, and she had never been so frightened of him than at that moment.

"Stop hovering over my shoulder every five minutes, Molly Hooper!" he bellowed before his tone dropped and became an icy monotone. "I know what I am doing, I'm not an amateur! And I would _succeed_ at catching these low-lives if you could give me some peace. How could anyone get work done around here? How can I be expected to concentrate without my own things? I own nothing in this stupid place, I don't even have my own clothes!"

Molly winced at his words and quickly apologized in every form that she could, guilt and sadness gnawing at her stomach. He was getting cabin fever. He needed to get out. So, once Sherlock was through with his tirade, she grabbed her coat and told the detective to change into his street disguise.

"Why?" he snapped.

"Because we're going out to eat. You need a break and I won't take no for an answer. I know a nice little place not far from here."

About ten minutes later found them sitting across from each other in front of a delightful little café, sipping tea and waiting for their meals to arrive. It was her favorite eatery within walking distance of her home with its elegantly designed round glass tables and fashionable dishes with the finest cuisine and drinks she had ever had in all of London. For only a little while they sat silently sipping their cuppas, until Molly was struck with an idea and began to ask Sherlock about the groups surrounding them. She made him think she didn't believe he could guess why this person seemed upset, or why that couple wouldn't even look at each other. All lies, of course, so she could enable him to show off his talents like he always loves to do; his preferred pastime. And it worked like a charm as she knew it would. Enthralled, she listened to his appealingly deep voice like it was music to her ears. She toyed with her teacup, leaned her head on her hand and reveled and basked in the view and company of Sherlock Holmes like he was the sun itself. The young pathologist just loved watching that expression of concentration and smugness whenever his brilliance took over. And, against her better judgment she knew, she couldn't resist a knowing smile tugging at her lips.

Unfortunately, he soon ran out of people to detail from their emotional and psychological state according to their appearance and stance to their deepest and most terrible secrets hidden far beneath, so Molly decided to take a risk and try and do something that could lighten his spirits and remember what he missed the most. "Is John right-handed or left-handed?"

Without a thought, Sherlock replied with a knowing half-grin, "Now that provided me a complex and interesting conclusion, to be sure. John writes with his left hand but shoots with his right. Considering his military background and the army's reputation for tradition and monotony, he was no doubt taught to shoot with his right hand..."

Sherlock hesitated for a moment.

Molly's face scrunched up in confusion. The detective never sputtered, especially in the middle of a deductive elaboration. And also, she knew he didn't have to think about the rest of his answer but something else seemed to be bothering him. He studied her with his brow furrowed and a suspicious light in his compelling blue eyes. His consideration must have come to an end and a conclusion reached, seeing what he had expected, because his scrutiny and sharp eyes released her at last. "Thank you, Molly Hooper," he muttered quietly but with great feeling in his voice before plunging into everything he knew about his flat mate Dr. John Watson, starting with her single frivolous question before moving far beyond.

Her heart fluttered and her hands shook upon hearing him thank her but she quickly tried to ignore her rippling stomach and focused on what he was telling her until she laughed so hard tears leaked out of the corners of her soft brown eyes. These two men really were the best of friends the world had ever seen. Sherlock's care and affection for the doctor was blatantly obvious, even to one as ignorant as she at deductive reasoning. If only more men could look after each other like John and Sherlock always did, England would be a far better place in which to live. If only they could be reunited once more. Not long now, not long, she fervently promised herself.

The following morning, Molly woke with another mad idea in her head and decided to act on it, come what may. After finding with irritation that she couldn't even check her email, it was getting essential to have her own laptop back anyway. During her lunch hour at work, she rang Mrs. Hudson, telling her that she had left something there at 221 B during the Christmas party so long ago and couldn't bring herself to interfere, or even to find reason for it, until she came to have a date and needed the supposed earrings for that night. None of which was true but she had become so involved, so intent, and so excited about what she was about to do for Sherlock that she couldn't back down now. Mrs. Hudson was gracious and accommodating and invited her over.

"It's no problem, dear, really," the kind woman said without the slightest hint of annoyance. "John is gone anyway."

"Gone? What do you mean?" Panic rose up in her chest like a black cloud.

"Oh, the silly man's up and left out of nowhere. I'm not sure where he is or when he'll be back. I'm so worried about him."

"Me too," Molly mumbled with a tremor in her voice then said goodbye with a heavy heart, fretting over John's state of mind and soul. Sherlock was not going to like this.

After her shift was over, she rushed over to Baker Street with a large striped bag, making it seem like she had just come from the gym as an excuse. Then, once alone, she raided the flat that Sherlock and his best friend once shared and would soon share again. She would make sure of it. If John ever came home, that is.

The next morning, Sherlock awoke to a surprise. Upon the nightstand beside his bed lay a strange yet familiar assortment of objects that weren't there before. A human skull, a riding crop, the detective's laptop, a blue robe and several pieces of clothes sat innocently on the wooden surface as though they had appeared by illusion. But no, they were real, he realized once his fingers grazed lovingly over them. A sweet smile suddenly invaded his lips and his insides felt as though they were lighter than air. Finally, he could feel completely comfortable here. Almost like home.


	7. Gravity's Echo

**Finally I was able to write the epic reunion of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes! Due to my frantic anticipation for season 3, I just had to take my time and write this one to the best of my ability. Hopefully, I was able to do justice to the scene in my head...**

**Just as a side note, the title for this chapter was inspired by a couple of fan videos from YouTube, one about Molly and Sherlock called "Gravity," and the other about John and Sherlock's beautiful relationship which, of course, is called "Echo" so hopefully that pretext sheds more light on why I chose it. Enjoy!**

**I do not own Sherlock BBC in any way, shape, or form...Benedict Cumberbatch on the other hand...**

Chapter 7: Gravity's Echo

"_I've seen men die. Good men, friends of mine. Thought I'd never sleep again. But I'll sleep fine tonight."_

White. Black. Purple.

Such were Sherlock's preferred colors of his stock of sleek button-down shirts. He had other alternatives hidden away in his wardrobe, of course; mainly disguises and other specimens more ghastly, courtesy from no other than his mother. And yet Molly Hooper—the naïve, irrational pathologist whom had been kind enough to, first, save his life by devising his death then open her home to him without question, without complaint—had chosen the very pieces of his trousseau that he would have personally selected for himself if given the opportunity to return once more to Baker Street to retrieve the essentials, and had always done so on a daily basis before this tedious need for discretion came about.

But how did she know? Unquestionably, it would have been obvious to his own heightened powers of deduction. But _Molly _knew what clothes he wore? Was she actually more observant than he ever gave her credit for? Could she possibly know more about him than he thought she did? The whole concept was almost…unbelievable, unnerving even. And yet the proof was before his very eyes.

_When the impossible is eliminated whatever remains_….

When he initially noticed them sitting there on his bedside table, his most cherished possessions—and not only his shirts but also his laptop, his favorite blue-striped dressing gown, his "friend's" skull, even his riding crop—the most bewildering and nonsensical sensation crept over him unexpectedly, and before he could guard himself against its potency, had invaded his defenses and floated through his chest like a frothy golden bubble and yet heavy like a stone, of something warm and pleasant, light and bright. The feeling had first come to life from within him when Molly had spoken with such sweetness and vulnerability to John on the phone directly after they watched the news report on the telly. Her wide, expressive, brown eyes never wavering from his, tears glistening in them before spilling over, as though she knew precisely how unsettled he was by John's reaction of his death and she had felt it keenly herself, just because he did.

He would never admit it, but unsettled was an understatement.

It practically tore Sherlock apart when he saw firsthand what his deception was doing to his colleague and best friend. The entire charade was meant for the world, not John, but his involvement was unavoidable. For the first time in a long time, his emotions became almost overwhelming, even unbearable; most especially when it came to Molly Hooper. That wonderful and perplexing ardor that had penetrated what was left of his steely cold heart was recognizable: affection, without a doubt. At once, he had abandoned it, leaving it alone in the hopes that it would perish in its infancy. But no, here it was, that regard, that weakness returning in full force to corrupt his brilliant mind even more strongly than before.

What was happening to him?

It was frustrating in the utmost. And he hated frustration.

After fondly going through his splendid well of treasures he noted, with dull shock and disappointment, that something was missing. Where was his beloved violin? How could she have possibly forgotten his violin, of all things? If he could only pick one thing to save from his flat, it would most definitely be his old instrument that gave him a hand in solving the most difficult of cases whenever he got stuck. And if he ever needed its uses, it was now above all.

Idiot, he silently scoffed her. As a result to her witlessness, he proceeded to fume and fret all night long.

The next morning he approached her with his fathomless ordeal, and she looked at him expectantly the moment the subject was broached, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip and her hands fidgeting with her ridiculous pink-striped pajamas with the cow silhouettes. Thoughts of how pleasant and inviting she appeared threatened to distract him but he obstinately threw up walls against them. At first, he found it necessary to express his gratitude to her, though stiff as it was, not to mention the fact that he stolidly avoided any eye contact with her whatsoever. Although it wasn't difficult once he beheld her pillow-fluffed hair and decided to stare at that with amusement instead of in her face to avoid those pesky emotions.

"But, as appreciative as I am by your…surprising efforts, I have failed to find my violin amongst the things you have brought from my flat—"

"Oh!" She gasped, her hands flying to her face in exasperation. "Oh, yes, of course, I have that as well, actually. I just couldn't fit it on the nightstand without risking it falling off."

Sherlock's eyes finally snapped to Molly's face. "What do you mean? You have it?"

But his questions were just a waste of his breath, for Molly had already flown into her bedroom and reappeared a moment later with a familiar gleaming wood apparatus, its elegant hourglass curves topped with a scroll carving held reverently in her small hands.

"I'm afraid John might notice this one missing, if not the others. But he's a man, so it will probably take him a long while if he notices at all…as would a normal man, anyway," Molly finished with a pointed look at the tall figure before her, but both the risk and the subtle verbal jab were lost on him. For the time being, he was too enthralled with her gift to care about anything else.

With shining eyes above a wide smile and the accompanying bow hanging down from her hooked pinky finger, Molly delicately offered the violin to him like a queen would bestow a sword to her knight, with it laying across her arms and parallel to her body. He could have sworn that she slightly dipped a knee in curtsy. It took all his willpower not to grimace at the absurd notion.

Sherlock was motionless. Able to do nothing but blink down at her for a moment and breathe deeply before he became consumed by that atrocious sentiment once more like a shroud, like iron binds, but he shoved all of it away, focusing his attention instead on the restoration of his most loyal companion, aside from John, of course. Lovingly taking hold of the neck, he felt the instrument's comforting weight and smooth shape fit into his hands perfectly, as though it was created for him in mind, and only him. The scent of cedar and resin wafted through the air like the best perfume, making his heart ache with yearning. His long fingers plucked intimately at the thin metallic strings as they warmed to his touch and anchored him to the sanity outside of boredom.

Taking the bow into his right palm, Sherlock positioned his fingertips onto the other side of the black frog and carved one velvety stroke just above the violin's bridge, producing a sweet chord that swept to their ears and caressed their souls like an angel of music. The consulting detective put down the fiddle before turning back to the pathologist who was utterly still with hands clasped tightly before her, cheeks blooming with color and pupils undeniably dilating. Finally, Sherlock gave in, his eyes falling, delving into hers with sheer intensity. More genuine this time, he said, "Thank you, Molly. I am indebted."

Perhaps, it could be true after all. She noticed everything, knew everything. And he was just beginning to accept it.

Afterwards, he was able to make substantial progress in overtaking his enemies. In fact, with his appetite for revenge whetted and vigor renewed tenfold, he was flourishing in every way but one.

In his half-empty house, Sherlock knew John was alone and probably in very dark spirits, but worst of all, he was unable to participate in this exceptionally vital and difficult adventure. Sherlock promised himself he would soon relieve the doctor of his troubles and revive his adrenaline addiction. He would see John again. He would.

Once after returning that gorgeously superb violin to its equally gorgeously superb owner, Molly awoke in the middle of the night only to distinguish strains of mournful music, of violin music to be precise, emanating from her lounge and reverberating beneath the crack in her bedroom door. Admittedly, she had been afraid that reuniting Sherlock with a sound-maker and coupling that with his affinity for staying up till three in the morning, that it would spell regret for her. Lack of sleep would prove too much of a burden at work. On the contrary, once she detected the bittersweet notes drifting into her hearing range, she was absolutely heartened, even exhilarated, knowing that Sherlock Holmes was not only in her home, well in body and spirit, whilst she slept, but that he was also there if she needed him. Although he would have resented bothering himself with her trivial problems, he would still come if she called. He would protect her. Always.

With that knowledge, and the pleasant melodies as an enchanting background to her dreams, she was effortlessly lulled to sleep, procuring the most rest she had ever had. Her final notion as she slipped into Morpheus' arms was an unlikely, yet confirming realization: No one without a heart could have played like that.

Three months passed after the Fall. Three months of sharing a house and connecting bedroom walls with the extraordinary Sherlock Holmes and all the quirks and blunt attitudes that came with it, whenever he acknowledged Molly at all that is. Three months before anything of real concern rose up and slapped them in the face. In fact, whilst at work, she stumbled upon a startling discovery that could and would very easily turn into disaster lest she did something to prevent it.

On the Tube ride home, she racked her brain with possible solutions, trying to think of a way out of this without involving Sherlock himself. She disliked pestering him or making him worry needlessly, particularly when it came to John Watson.

When the doctor had marched unceremoniously into her morgue at St. Bart's earlier that day, she was initially delighted. In the year or two of her acquaintance with him, she had come to like him very much by his pleasing nature, and not just by reason of his having formerly been a herald to Sherlock's appearance.

But ever since Sherlock's disgrace and assumed suicide, crossing paths with John meant just one more detail, one more exchanged conversation with him that she could relate to Sherlock during their difficult time of separation. And in this instance, she hoped she could bring the news to Sherlock of how much better his friend was doing. Instead, she was gravely mistaken. John had looked just as bad as he did at the funeral only this time he had a determined and feral light in his eye, the kind that made her feel frightened at what he might do. Once Lestrade had arrived at John's side, she knew her suspicions were confirmed. After examining the body of a John Doe that had arrived on her slab that morning, their scattered words and allusive behavior peeked her interest, as well as incited her greatest fears.

Pulling John Watson aside before he could escape, Molly coaxed the truth out of him. And she was horrified with the outcome. Straightaway, she tried and tried with all of her might and powers of coercion to convince him to give up his venture, telling him that he could get killed and alluding to the idea that he would be frittering away Sherlock's sacrifice, knowing that his efforts were both pointless and perilous, but to no avail. His course was decided.

"I have to do this. Otherwise, how could I live with myself? My life would mean nothing!" John's last bitter declaration still echoed harshly in her ears three hours later when she alighted from the train and made her fazed way to the lovely little cottage her father had handed down to her. Oh, good grief, she certainly needed his guidance now!

But if John continued, he would ruin everything, undermine months of Sherlock's restless endeavors…he could even end up on one of her icy shelves in the process. No, no, she couldn't let any of that happen. She could never bring that kind of news to Sherlock. Not ever. But how could they divert him, convince him to leave off this mad last resort to ease his desperation and grief?

Sherlock would know what to do.

Anxiously, she quickened her pace to her front door and unlocked it after several tries since her hands were shaking so badly and her mind had sunk elsewhere, too frazzled and dumbfounded for it to be of any use. Once inside, she rushed to her sofa where Sherlock lay with his own laptop balancing on his flat stomach and his pale fingers brushing his lips in concentration…with none other than her black kitten sprawled contentedly on his legs. Sparing only one moment to revel in the sight of them together, smugness and exhilaration competing for dominance inside of her, she returned her focus to the urgent matter at hand.

"Molly, I think I'm close now, so close I can almost taste it—"

"Sherlock!" Molly abruptly interrupted him without a hint of embarrassment or offering an apology. So very unlike her. Something was wrong.

Gulping past the lump in her throat and her overwhelming panic, she managed to dislodge her words between gasps. "Sherlock, listen…I saw John today and he told me,,.something…You won't like it at all. I don't…know why he's doing…this, some strange sense of latent loyalty, I guess…"

"Get it out," Sherlock muttered between his clenched teeth, his hands hovering over his keyboard before curling into tight fists.

It spilled from her mouth in a torrential flood, swift, powerful, and deadly. "John is hunting down Moriarty's men, just like you, but more openly." She shook her head, miserable and uncomprehending. "Like his life depended on it. And he doesn't seem to care what comes of it. Even losing his own life, although I think that…that might have been his purpose all along," she added in a small voice, afraid that Sherlock would shoot the messenger, as it were. And he did look intimidating with a muscle in his jaw twitching violently. "What should we do?"

With his mouth pressed together hard enough to make it lose its color, he sat still for what felt like an hour, just staring unseeingly at his laptop until he slowly closed it and faced the kind pathologist whose lip quivered and hands clawed mercilessly into the back cushion of her antique-styled inherited sofa.

Finally, he spoke, his words tight. "What else? We must put an end to his pursuits, and soon."

ↄ∞ↄ

Directly after his row with Molly, John finally decided to get some sleep at Baker Street. He had been running about like mad so much, chasing after criminals of Moriarty's former association, that he had been neglecting proper rest…and his home. Avoiding it outright as often as he could, his flat still reminded him too much of recently-departed friend. Every moment whittled there was a strain on his despair, another stab to his pain, another mark on his crippled heart. But he was far too burned out to cater to his grief tonight, especially after having Molly castigate him for doing the very thing she should have been helping him with. Who would have thought Molly of all people would be against him? Not only was he baffled but also hurt that Molly didn't understand. How could she not think it necessary to go after the monsters who wanted to kill Sherlock? At the very least, he could clear the consulting detective's name. And get deeply gratifying revenge in the process.

Her fear-ridden words still whizzed about John's head like flies and he mentally tried to bat them away. What did he care if he got himself in trouble? This was his only chance to repay Sherlock for all that he was to him, all that he had become before he senselessly leapt from Bart's roof without proper cause or explanation, only a blatant lie. Prowling after the people who did this to his best friend was all he had left now. There was nothing else. He had to do this. He just had to.

Taking hold of the familiar gold and chipped handle to the black door of 221B, he blearily stumbled inside the front hallway and climbed the narrow, creaky stairs to the common room of the flat that he had once shared with the great Sherlock Holmes.

The silence was deafening. It hurt his ears. It hurt his heart.

Against his will, he found his sight instinctively trained toward the one darkened corner where the detective once sat in a chair that was distinctly his and his alone with its black material and metal framing. The ever-present anguish like a gray thundercloud in his stomach and spearing pang in his chest had become a dull throb until that moment when the bleak hollowness of the high-backed seat starkly reconfirmed to him of what he would be missing for the rest of his sorry life. His throat raw and his mouth bending down with the warning that cold tears were on their way, he began to turn away in disgust, hoping to dredge up a little relief and forgetfulness in sleep instead of nightmares, only to stop dead in his tracks with one foot through the doorway.

The ex-soldier's head whipped back to take another look at the chair closest to the window that was emptier than he had assumed. Flinging himself across the room, his hand then explored the worn leather cushions and the floor beneath it, circling like a dog around the area only to finding vacant air. Where was Sherlock's bloody violin?

Clumsily regaining his feet, he stared with eyes immersed in bewilderment and frazzled dismay at the place he thought the tall dark-haired man had last carefully deposited the wooden instrument. Unable to bring himself to change what was left behind, John had abandoned it there untouched to try and fill the loss and keep it in his field of vision as a sort of a shrine to the one who once owned it and played it in a way more dear to his ears than anything from Bach, only to come up with nothing.

This couldn't be happening.

Rubbing his face with quivering hands, he tried to think of what could have happened to it. Where could it have gone? Then a sudden realization occurred to him, allowing absolute dread to descend upon him and grip him with iron fingers. Holding his breath and steeling himself for the worst, he woodenly revolved on his heel. The mantel was strewn with books and old scraps of paper…and nothing else. Nothing at all, not even a human skull to break up the blank monotony, for the skull was nowhere to be seen.

Suddenly, John felt as though he were falling down a very steep canyon with only a speeding wind and razor-sharp rocks to break his fall before they did. A thousand daggers seemed to be driven into his soul and his insides began to disintegrate into an acidic black pool that rivaled the desolation between the stars. In a frantic last effort, John dashed to the desk in the middle of the room then the kitchen table. No laptop. Then in Sherlock's bedroom, his riding crop, his best dressing gown, even his shirts, all gone. Almost everything had disappeared like…like the detective had never existed in the first place. John's heart ceased beating for too long.

Groaning and gasping, he tore down the stairs, taking three at a time before knocking furiously at Mrs. Hudson's door and didn't cease until it opened and his flustered landlady blinked up at him in astonishment, her hands clutching modestly at the neck of her robe to cover up her nighty. "Where are his things?" he exploded without pretext, his voice sounding strangled. "Where are Sherlock's things? Have we had a break-in?"

"What, dear? What are you saying?" she responded and John was extremely frightened that he had been right and that Sherlock had just been a figment of his imagination the last two years. He was truly panicking now. "Sherlock's things? They should be there. Nothing has happened, nothing taken that I've noticed. I don't think we've had a break-in…"

"Well, his favorite things are gone! All of them," John rasped before running back to his flat and slammed the door shut without a backward glance, Mrs. Hudson calling out to him all the while.

John spent the remainder of the night frantically rummaging through every room and digging into every crevice that Sherlock could have conceivably explored, making as much of a mess as would a tornado. But his most endeared earthly belongings were nowhere to be found.

So far, John Watson was not having an encouraging week. And it was only Monday.

How would he ever survive without Sherlock revealing the world's secrets to him by half a glimpse?

_Oh, Sherlock, why did you leave me like this?_ He silently cried out in his dejection.

Not two days later, the doctor was waiting at a street corner outside of Scotland Yard, distractedly glaring at his mobile as he tried to text Lestrade about him coming to visit Baker Street, promising him that he was not going barmy about Sherlock's missing valuables, when the loud—and unmistakably close—revving of a car made his head jerk up in alarm. In the one clear moment before chaos erupted, he was able to grasp that a gray runaway Rolls was only a metre away from his legs, bearing down fast upon him and giving no signs of braking or swerving away. Either he was too stupefied to react quickly enough or perhaps he simply couldn't find it within himself to care enough to take the required action to save his own life, but for whatever reason, John just stood there motionless and would have been crushed to death by the massive vehicle if not for an unnamable force that shoved him out of the path of the car before it could make him into road kill.

Abruptly, John was pitched aside with the Rolls missing him by inches. The world spun and tilted before his shoulder hit something hard—the pavement—and he rolled, feeling his knees scrape painfully along the rough cement surface along the way. That was definitely going to hurt tomorrow.

A shrill screech forced John to look up just in time to get an impression of the car as it barreled down the street, turned a corner, and made its escape. It took him an extra minute to vaguely realize that somebody in a gray rugby sweatshirt had toppled down with him. And that somebody had saved his life. The mysterious Good Samaritan's pale hand skimmed John's arm before he graciously helped the latter to his feet.

Dazed and shaking with adrenaline and fear, John attempted to pull himself together enough to thank his rescuer. He turned to where the man was standing a moment before and his gratitude died on his lips since its intended receiver had already hastened away down the pavement without saying a word.

"Hey…hey!" John bellowed whilst he sprinted after the tall figure only to watch him hail a cab and vanish, his hand holding a hood over his head all the while. John cursed.

_I couldn't even see his face. How will I ever be able to thank him now?_

After returning to his flat to try and recover from the ordeal, he tried to think of whether the hit-and-run driver was just stupid and careless or if he had meant to run him down all along. Who would want to kill him, he was nobody? Could it have to do with Moriarty's spectrum of criminal toadies or from his previous cases with Sherlock? Or was he actually going daft after all?

John groaned in frustration and anger, his hand becoming wet and chilled from pinning one bag of ice to his knee and another to his shoulder. Out of nowhere, his mobile began to chirp, creating a jarring dissonance that shattered both the quiet and his depressing, circular train of thought. Why did he leave his phone on the table?

Hissing at the protesting twinge of his limbs and muscles, he hobbled over to the kitchen and answered the call, only somewhat surprised to hear Molly's voice on the other line. But to his confusion, she was not ringing him to apologize. Instead, she claimed that she had changed her mind, he had won her over, and that she wanted to give him a hand in his investigation. John's disbelief and skepticism were only a minor deterrence in his head once he learned what she wanted.

"I know someone who has information," she stuttered timidly through his earpiece, "An—an old friend of mine in Secret Service. He wants to meet you tonight."

John cut her off. He was already convinced. "Where, when?"

"Midnight. Come to St. Bart's Hospital, my lab. I'll be there as well, we can help you. Trust me, John."

"Okay. I'll be there."

There was a slight pause as Molly sighed. "Good. See you then. And…and be careful, John."

Careful? That seemed strange, he thought to himself as the line went dead. Did she know what happened to him? How could she possibly know he had almost met his Maker only an hour before?

For the rest of the evening, John observed the windows and walls as the dusk overtook the world beyond the horizon. Orange and gold radiance poured through the common room until it melted into lavender and finally the black of night as the guiding fire of the stars erupted across the dark satin sky. This felt right. After such long and harrowing months, John could sense something remotely fortunate falling into his lap. Finally, he could restore Sherlock's memory and bring himself some stale sort of peace. But where would he be then?

ↄ∞ↄ

If John had discretely snuck into Bart's ten minutes earlier, he would have happened upon a perplexing spectacle, indeed. He would have been audience to the scene of Molly Hooper stroking the arm of a tall, thin man in everyday garb, as though she were comforting him, telling him that all would be well. Giving him courage.

But, no; rather, the ex-army doctor limped into the dimly-lit pathologists' lab at precisely the designated moment, when that world-renowned clock tower thrusting high above the heart of London struck twelve and most of the general populous heedlessly slept. Or, as Sherlock would have put it, the indolent masses who were too idiotic and too inattentive to properly develop their feeble minds and overcome their baser needs; how dull, how utterly boring. John's heart wilted.

The long white room that John had become well-acquainted with in his few short years of miscreant-hunting at the side of the most brilliant man and the one and only consulting detective was the same as it always was. Petrie dishes, expensive microscopes, and various plungers were scattered neatly about the pristine counters above brown drawers and cupboards that he knew held silver implements that took part in research that he no longer bothered to learn about. Tiny mechanical beams of all colors flickered from the humming scientific machinery that lined the spotless walls alongside outdated computer monitors.

He was surrounded by things that stirred fond and amusing memories inside of him that he preferred not to recall for a very long time as yet. Everything he was all too accustomed to but for two things: the unpleasant florescent bulbs were giving off less light than usual, casting distorted, eerie shadows on everything including the other phenomenon in the room. A pair of long jean-covered legs was crossed and stretched out, bridging the gap between their resting place on the middle island counter and a corner chair that was concealed behind a large rectangle piece of equipment.

John staggered to a halt He shifted awkwardly, considering who else could be here at this forsaken hour of the night and hoped he didn't have to expose too much of his intentions to a stranger. Could it be Molly's friend she mentioned on the phone?

Clearing his throat, John spoke up, his voice horrendously loud in that silent gloom, "Sorry, but do you know where I can find Dr. Hooper? Is she here?"

In answer, the recipient of his question rose fluidly to his feet, flipped on the light switch, and let his hood fall from his face.

John blinked and squinted in the sudden abundance of dazzling illumination…and froze. Consequently, his lungs forgot how to take in air or that the action could by any means be necessary.

He seriously wondered whether he had plummeted into one of his dreams as his mind tried to comprehend who was before him.

Crowned with a mop of black curls and sharply punctuated by icy blue eyes, a pale face with high cheekbones frowned down at him. Rapidly, John scanned the entirety of him, devouring him from his lofty thin frame and striped-blue scarf knotted around his neck to his polished dress shoes, and though he was enwrapped in a common gray sweatshirt and blue trousers he would never have been caught dead in, all but those were the familiar signs that provided evidence to what he had already suspected and hoped to confirm. It all undeniably shouted of the achingly familiar Sherlock Holmes.

The former soldier sucked in a gulp of air, his chest constricting uncontrollably. His pulse drummed erratically in his ears, but it was little more than white noise to him.

He shook his head to try and dispel whatever had come over him. It was simply not possible. Not at all, though he wished for it more deeply than he could have expressed in speech. Somewhere along the way, his sorrow must have gotten the better of him and ravaged his capability for rational cognition. Reality had become beyond recognition. In essence, he had finally lost his senses.

Both men stood transfixed for several ceaseless minutes before John vigorously rubbed at his eyes with both hands then peered up from them as a last bid to break free from this tormenting yet marvelous illusion but without any luck. Sherlock still seemed to be there, his eyes a little wider than usual as though by worry and his grim mouth set. The consulting detective carefully upraised his arms halfway, palms positioned toward John in a placating gesture.

Then, breathing heavily and mumbling denials such as "No, no, no, this can't be, not now. So close, so close. How could things get any worse? What more could happen to me?" John tore his eyes away from the spirit of his best friend to pace feverishly across the adjacent section of the floor like a wild beast.

How could it have come to _this_? He knew things were bad but…delusions? The physician side of his mind tried to analyze the situation, only to baffle him further. This was so agonizing, having someone so precious to you wander at your heels, knowing they're not actually there, a constant reminder to what had been stolen from you! Cruel and unusual punishment, indeed.

This rivalled the hell he endured in the war.

"John?" Sherlock gently whispered, making the smaller man flinch but giving no other indication that he heard him or detected him slowly weaving his way towards the end of the lab where the army doctor stampeded. A crease appeared between Sherlock's eyebrows, a haze of sentiment beginning to inflict him, but for once he didn't bother with trying to repel it. John just meant to much to him to contradict it.

Without warning, John skidded to a stop before reaching into the side pocket of his favorite shooting jacket, keeping a bottle there for just such an emergency. He began pouring pill after pill onto his palm, miraculously succeeding despite how badly his limbs were convulsing. There was no other choice: He had to put an end to this.

As the sandy-haired man's back was to him, Sherlock couldn't see what he was on about.

"John, what are you doing?" The detective sidled up to his friend until he could peek past his forearm and hip…and, with a sick twist of his stomach, he understood. Void of his former hesitation and delicacy, Sherlock lunged at his colleague.

"John, no!" Sherlock cried out and grabbed him by the arm which caused the offending white tablets to skitter and bounce across the glistening tiles, and the bottle tumbling after them. The doctor watched in horror at being deprived of the one link he had to blissful oblivion, his path to reuniting with his dear friend.

John whirled on what he still assumed was a specter, his anger spiking to new heights and blazing in his hazel eyes. Without thought, he fisted his hand, drew back his elbow, and promptly struck without aiming.

_This will show the sodding universe._

Something solid and—real connected with his knuckles, making his hand immediately smart with the impact and veer to the side. John recoiled in pure shock, gaping first at his own clenched fingers then at the subject of his foolish wrath. Even he could discern his face blanching.

He blinked as though roused from a nightmare only to determine that the terrible experience he thought had pounced on him unawares was only a fiction invented by his subconscious. For the great Sherlock Holmes was still there, right in front of him, straightening once more from where he had bowed under his flatmate's attack and ignored a trickle of blood that was gathering on his wan lips and spilt over his angular chin. And John had actually _touched_ him, so he couldn't be a hallucination, after all. But he had to be sure.

Breathing coming short and fast now and praying like he had never prayed before in his life even in the war, John's arm flew out and grappled onto the shabby sleeve of the dark-haired man's sweatshirt. Yes, the material was real, and so was the limb beneath it. Thankfully it had enough substance to bear him up since he had become too frailto resist being demolished by a feather. Could it be true? Could he be alive?

"Jes—" the army doctor croaked, his voice breaking off beneath the thundering deluge of endless emotions that overpowered his abilities of speech, of movement, of thought. It engulfed him completely. Undoubtedly, his head swam with disbelief and confusion, but they were quickly dismissed by much stronger reactions. His heart was bursting like a supernova, like it was sprouting wings and soaring to the skies with the freedom to return home after a millennium of absence. So suffused as he was with more joy and relief than he had ever imagined was possible for one living person to feel, that it overflowed to his very soul, allowing color and light to return at long last, enfolding him in soothing warmth and defeating the storm of his pain and sorrow.

And now, after having been imprisoned in some dark Purgatory, the sun was erupting from the clouds.

"Sherlock? Sherlock?" he repeated in a hoarse whisper past a tightening throat before lifting his eyes to gaze directly into the unearthly blue orbs of his friend for the first time in three very long months, and saw precisely what was both expected and yet not expected. The detective's eyes were suspiciously bright with a stunning happiness that mirrored his own, but also encompassed the same brilliance and arrogant liveliness that he instantly remembered with endearment.

All of a sudden, John felt like his inner wounds were mending without a scar. Suffering was fading away and life was reemerging for John Watson before he knew it had been relinquished.

Without caring what would come of it, whether rebukes or mockery, John lurched for Sherlock, one arm reaching over the tall man's shoulder and the other latching onto his torso, and rigorously embraced him, his hold sturdy and sure. And Sherlock met him halfway without hesitation. Neither was willing to let go for a good while yet, their arms interlocked and fiercely cinched.

John trembled, though his grasp was secure, and wept openly. Tears flooded unashamedly down his cheeks. Sherlock was more silent but John could sense his stoicism faltering precariously.

"It's going to be all right now, John," the consulting detective assured his colleague and best friend.

The army doctor sniffed thickly against the shoulder of the man he considered more than a mere brother. "Yeah, yeah, I know, Sherlock."

**I realize that in the story, and probably the show, that their reunion probably takes place after a much longer period than three months, but I'm sorry I just couldn't do that to my beloved John Watson. I just couldn't, accuracy be cursed.**

**There will be another chapter after this, probably just one more for this particular story. But I will be out of town for more than a week so it will be delayed. Just be patient!**

**Please review, I'd love to know what you think!**


	8. Dead Men Tell Tales

**Greetings, all! I have returned at long last. My trip went rather long and then I had to work on something else first-not to mention recover from the ghastly snubs at the Emmy's-before I could return to the glorious world of Sherlock BBC. **

**But now I have finally finished the next chapter, I hope you enjoy! As always, thank you so much for the follows, etc, and please comment, I would love to hear what you think.**

**As disclaimer, I own nothing pertaining to Sherlock, nothing I say, nothing! The world is too cruel to allow such a beautiful thing... **

Chapter 8: Dead Men Tell Tales

"_My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?"_

"_I don't know."_

"_Neither do I. But initially he wanted to be a pirate."_

Lab chemicals, imported aftershave, violin resin, and faint cigarette smoke; all of which produced rather common and otherwise unimportant smells in of themselves, but when blended together into one, they provided the most wonderful bouquet of aromas in the world to Dr. John Watson. All because they only meant one thing: none other than Sherlock Holmes was beside him, alive and intact, though he never imagined that such a thing could ever be possible again, no matter how much he wished it...until now.

The ex-soldier was now beginning to accept that his best friend was really _here_ with him, breathing and solid, and not a delusion after all. He could feel the consulting detective's soft blue scarf rubbing against his cheek, their arms wound around each other's backs making it difficult to decipher where he ended and the other began. With the well of his tears drying up to the relief of his ego, John swallowed and sniffed thickly, taking in another great whiff of the scents that were blaringly Sherlock along the way, the familiarity of it all making him dizzy with relief and happiness. He never wanted to let go.

That hellish well of his misery he had been living in for three long months was expanding, breaking down, and brightening at last, releasing him of his prison of loss and loneliness just like Sherlock did when they first met, and he was doing it anew with the warm comfort and safety of his uncharacteristic hug. So shriveled and shattered and empty as he was of late, John Watson was whole once again. Life had returned.

John's fingers still clutched that awful ragged sweatshirt Sherlock was wearing and he wasn't quite sure if he could un-pry them once the tall man's unfailing distaste of sentiment and the display thereof would cause him to scold the doctor for being so idiotically clingy. He was too afraid that if he severed their connection or moved at all, his beloved friend would disappear or he would wake from this beautiful dream. But, for the present, his worries were unnecessary, for Sherlock didn't lean away or even slacken his tight grip on the smaller man. No, the detective seemed as content to stay there as he was. How very odd. It made him wonder how much Sherlock had changed in their separation, if at all. He tried to remember the last time he saw his brilliant, brash flatmate and remembered when and where and how all too clearly in a flash of memory.

Blood spattered on the pavement of St. Bart's, dripping all over Sherlock's curly black hair, smeared across his sharp cheekbones like scratch marks. His pale skin too ashen, his icy eyes too vacant, too still. His fall through the air. The phone call that broke him to pieces…

Keen-edged and aching, the echo of John's grief soaked his heart like a cold wave, promptly waking him up but was quickly rebuffed once he realized something: Sherlock had been alive for three months. And he had never said a word to him about it. Not only that, but he had taken elaborate measures to trick his stupid former colleague, even to ensure that he was witness to it.

John's eyes snapped open. Momentarily, he stared at the younger man's customary blue-striped scarf, for the first time feeling a twinge of hatred at the sight of it. His body grew rigged and his hands formed into hard fists. A sudden flare of rage ignited inside of him like a river of magma, choking him with its toxic fumes and sending him into hysterics with its heat. He couldn't remember the last instance his temper overwhelmed him so completely, but then he never met anyone that was so vital to his existence until now; and therefore, the betrayal was all the more devastating, even crippling.

With surprising force, John wrenched himself out of Sherlock's arms and stepped out of even his long reach. Breaths coming in huffs, the shaking doctor faced the consulting detective whose arms fell limply to his sides, his gaping mouth closing into a frown. Knowing John's character and personality as well as he did, he had already deduced that John would be hard-pressed to forgive him, as stubborn and sensitive as he was. It was too painful a thing for him to think of. Sometimes he disliked being right. "John, what—"

"No!" John shouted. "No, not this time. I'm not going to listen to you or—or give in, catering to your every whim like a dog again, not until you explain yourself, Sherlock Holmes! I saw you fall from a building. I saw you! I felt your wrist; there was no pulse, Sherlock, none. You were dead," John's voice cracked and he swallowed to try and hold back his emotions, but he wasn't fully successful. He rubbed his eyes viciously with the back of his hand before returning to the battle. "How, how is this possible? How are you alive? I saw you kill yourself…"

"You only saw what I needed you to see," Sherlock said quietly, his body motionless, his heart beating rapidly in anticipation of his best friend walking out on him permanently this time. As rare an experience as it was, he understood that the twist in his stomach signified fear. He hated it.

The doctor became very still unexpectedly, his shoulders slumped and his forehead creased in inner pain. "What?" he finally gasped.

Sherlock recognized that look and had to stamp it out immediately. He couldn't bear seeing his flatmate like this, never could. Time for the confession of the century, if only the ex-soldier would believe him, or even listen to him. "I had to do it, John. I didn't want to, but I realized beforehand, here in the lab after we parted on the street, what Moriarty was doing and what he was planning to do. He wanted me destroyed, but not just my career; he was building up to the climax of his own making, and it ended in my death. I knew it and I prepared for it. It wouldn't do to allow a thing like that to happen, now, would it?"

To Sherlock's great relief, John seemed to have regained the capability to breathe, his body relaxing a little, demonstrating that his emotional stability was dipping below the critical level. But neither was he at all happy with the situation. John shook his head slightly in disbelief.

"Explain, Sherlock. I am not getting this," he muttered through clenched teeth.

Sherlock smiled inwardly. He had heard him say that before. But now things were better than when he did, they were safer…They were together and without the prospect of impending doom looming over their heads. "Remember the phone call, when I was on the roof?"

"Remember?!" John burst out then let out a humorless laugh. His anger was coming back with a vengeance. "Remember? How could I possibly forget? How could I forget my best mate standing on the edge of a bloody building, not letting me go to him, talking nonsense about notes and being a fake? Which, by the way, I never believed, not once! I've always known who and what you are, that's why I care about you so much. Why did you say that, Sherlock?"

Despite the fact that John's confession of his deep loyalty and unbreakable devotion was making Sherlock's heart float up in sheer joy, he chose to ignore it and dwell on it later. "In a moment, John, I'll explain everything but for now just focus. Do you remember specifically what I said, about how I was able to be right about everything and everyone? That it was all just a—"

"'Trick, a magic trick'," John finished for him, quoting it perfectly. His eyes lit up and his gray face was showing a tiny ray of hope.

Sherlock was impressed. "Yes, yes, exactly. I wasn't talking about me being a fake, which you were right about all along, instead I was talking about then, right then what I was about to do. My death was all just a magic trick, nothing more."

Lifting his arms toward the detective in a gesture of defeat, he replied, "But _how_ exactly?"

That oh-so-familiar smile of his, where only one side of his mouth turned up in a knowing, cocky grin at his own cleverness appeared above Sherlock's chin, making John's happiness even brighter; he was Sherlock for sure. And he predicted precisely what was coming next, the details of all that had happened as was usual for all his cases and this one was no different regardless of his involvement.

With his signature swift and masterful manner of speech, the said detective elaborated, "Let us start from your entrance onto the scene, shall we? When you called me off of the cab, the first thing I told you was to go back to where you were, around the second corner. Do you remember that car garage? It was in the way. You could see me jump but you couldn't see where I landed, did you?"

"I…No, no I didn't," John answered, his tone speculative and distracted as he thought back to that horrible day. The truth was dawning on him as he remembered more of the small things that, at the time didn't seem worthy of note, and he was just now putting the pieces together as his friend spoke. He was always smarter than Sherlock expected.

"I ensured it that way, so you couldn't see me fall instead into the rubbish lorry where it was idling so conveniently beside the pavement, as it was supposed to. Then there was, of course, the cyclist."

"Cyclist?"

"Yes, the one that knocked you down. I arranged that. I couldn't have you interrupting my grand deception prematurely and catch me in the act, now could I?" John's hazel eyes widened and his jaw twitched, threatening the restoration of his irrational temper, but Sherlock continued before he could rail off again and interrupt his breakdown whilst he was on such a delicious roll. "I plummeted safely, though less sanitarily, into the bed of the lorry and popped out onto the other side unharmed, positioning myself on the ground and poured the blood that was siphoned from me only a few hours beforehand, onto the back of my head and played dead for a few minutes. Not exactly rocket science or the discovery of a new element, but was quite a notable feat all the same," Sherlock ended, his head tilted to the side in mock consideration.

"But you had no pulse. And you _looked_ dead, your eyes... " He gulped past the choking feeling in his throat that had become all too familiar to him of late. "How could you have managed that, eh? Real magic this time?"

Sherlock placed his folded hands calmly behind his back and rolled his eyes. "Don't be an idiot, John. You can do better than that, just think. First of all, the pulse: Didn't you notice me playing with a black rubber ball in the lab after I texted you to come, right before my supposed suicide? When was the last time you saw me fiddling with a child's toy?"

John's brow bent in confusion and Sherlock waited impatiently for him to come up with the reason himself. He was a medical man after all.

It didn't take long. The blonde man's forehead smoothed out and his eyes swiveled up to the celling as his own thoughtlessness became clear to him. "The old ball in the armpit trick, I should have known." First pinching the bridge of his nose, he then proceeded to chuckle a little under his breath, more genuinely this time. "It was that simple all along. I can't believe it. And the rest of it?"

Sherlock gracefully shrugged. "Molly gave me some drugs and I took them a few minutes before I jumped. They made me look sufficiently dead but only temporarily as I had to make my escape soon afterwards, and in a disguise no less."

"Wait, wait, hold on now!" John stalled the detective, his palm out and face taking on an unattractive shade of scarlet, his words falling heavily and slowly from his mouth. Bit not good. "Molly? What do you mean Molly? Are you telling me that she _knew_ about you being alive this _whole_ damn time?"

Swallowing hard, Sherlock mumbled in a lifeless monotone, "I…" He could feel his heart turning to a bloodless stone in his chest, for it had stopped pumping blood for too long, and his stomach plunged to his knees. He had to try and prevent the worst from happening, if it had not already. "Please try to understand, John. I needed her help and I knew I could trust her. Who do you think forged my death certificate? And I had to get help from my Homeless Network, I had to have a cyclist and someone to drive the lorry—"

"What?" John sputtered, the rampaging wrath that had been stifled by the novelty of new information, was now crashing to the fore and gaining new heights and potency, even compared to a few minutes ago, with this stinging revelation. A red cloud descended over his vision as what he had been wanting to happen for so long had been robbed of him by others. The person he was foolish enough to consider as the one he trusted most in the world had proverbially stabbed him in the back, once again shattering him from the inside out.

Shaking convulsively, John spat out with a rising voice, "_They_ know about it, as well? Did the whole stupid country, know about it before I did? Huh? Was I too thick or untrustworthy for even that much courtesy? You…you sodding, bloody no-good, two-faced son of a—" And so he commenced to elegantly spin an especially eloquently linguistic tapestry of curses and obscenities that were so colorful that even Sherlock Holmes could admire them in their creativity under normal circumstances. Yet, at the moment, the black-haired genius merely raised an eyebrow, letting the doctor rant off without hindering him, waiting for the final blow that would finally be the end of him.

Once John ran out of all the swear words available to him in the dictionary and every language he could remember, he abandoned his generic weapon and went straight for the throat. "I thought I was your only friend, but apparently not, since you didn't find it necessary to tell me that you were alive, even though _I_ was the one who had to watch you die. _I_ was the one who had to arrange your funeral and put you in the ground whereas everyone else would have left you where you fell! Do you have _any _idea of what I've been through, of how many times I visited that cold bloody grave of yours with that headstone that always reminded me of you? _Three months_, Sherlock, that's how long I suffered and mourned for you like a right git because you always have to be right, always have to have everything your way even though it hurts everyone around you. I should have known you were just a heartless machine all along…"

John paused so he could get his breath back and regroup his thoughts, glaring up at his former friend and only just now noticing that he wasn't as indignant or irritated by John's outburst as he had presumed he would be. On the contrary, he seemed more like one facing his execution, if his haggard face and pained eyes were of any indication. Did John actually wound this man's unused, microscopic emotions or was it another one of his acts to get what he wanted? But, that begged the question, what was Sherlock after here? From the corner of his eye, John distinguished a glimmer on Sherlock's cheek. On closer inspection, he thought he glimpsed a solitary tear streaking down his pallid skin but the taller man turned away before he could find out for sure. He was still imagining things. It wasn't possible. But his heart clenched in compassion all the same.

At long last, the consulting detective opened his pale mouth with difficulty. "I am so sorry, John," Sherlock whispered sluggishly and wearily.

John bristled again. "Oh? And you think that spouting off an over-used expression, which is meaningless coming from you, is enough to fix everything, do ya?" He lifted his fists in the air, arranging his feet and back into a fighting stance. Sherlock didn't even flinch, make as to defend himself, or tear his sullen stare away from John's face. "How would you like it if I knocked _you_ to the ground this time, show you how it feels?"

But before John could follow through with his challenge or even make a move, a custodian's pantry door in the wall just behind Sherlock exploded open and a shaken-looking Molly Hooper rushed in between the two men, coming to a halt in front of John with her back to Sherlock and her arms spread out to her sides as though she were shielding the detective. "No, John, stop it, stop it! Don't hurt him, please. He's not telling you everything…" Her large doe eyes, filled with worry and distress, peered up at the doctor, several strands of her russet hair poking out in all sorts of places and her flowery blouse disheveled in consequence of her flight.

After glancing back and forth between Sherlock and the pathologist, John asked in annoyance, "What do you mean? What _else_ is he keeping from me?"

Almost instinctively, Molly stole a quick peek into Sherlock's ordinarily shrewd and objective face for confirmation and had to do a double-take. To her shock, he was no longer paying attention. Instead he was simply staring off into nothing with hopeless misery darkening his lovely blue eyes. Heaven help us, no support from there then. At least he wasn't trying to prevent her…yet. Then, seeing the growing bruise and dried blood on Sherlock's lip from where John had punched him, she reached for a cold pack from the small freezer and cloth from a drawer and passed them over to him. Unthinkingly, Sherlock took them without looking at her and held them to his face as she faced John's wrath again. Of its own accord, her hand strayed back and to the sleeve of the rugby sweatshirt Sherlock was wearing and gripped it in a small endeavor of comfort. For them both. Strangely, he didn't shake her off.

Trying to stave off a growing panic at Sherlock's expense, Molly took a deep breath and obliged John with the truth before her dark-haired companion could recover. "John, John, please listen to me. He never would have done this from the beginning unless he had to, you know that!"

John scoffed. "Yeah, so he could save his own skin."

Molly was never very good at staring someone down but she gave it a good try and John seemed to wilt a little as she glowered at him. "Wrong!" she said, coming out stronger than she thought she was capable of. "Do you have any _idea_ what Moriarty threatened to do? Hmm? Did you ever consider in that stubborn head of yours that maybe that horrible man had a sniper on you, on Mrs. Hudson, on Lestrade?"

The ex-army doctor could do nothing but blink. He was too overcome with confusion and the brew of ire and persevering despair in his stomach to do anything else.

"Because he did, John," Molly cut across his boggling observations. "Sherlock did all he could to prevent having to fake his suicide but it all came down to the fact that Moriarty was the one in control. He was just as prepared. He told Sherlock that if he didn't jump, then you and the others would die instead. You know Sherlock well enough, and Moriarty as well. Sherlock wouldn't have done that unless he had to, in order to save someone else; to save you, John. It practically killed him to hurt you…"

The blonde man looked away for a minute, his frenzy beginning to deflate. His mouth opened and closed then opened again to respond, "Then why did he make me watch?" His voice broke on the last word so he coughed to try and clear his throat and attempt to keep at bay the tears this time.

Without warning, Sherlock's deep rumbling voice made its much-needed and belated contribution, making his two friends start. "Because I had to make you believe in my death just as much as everyone else." He met John's soulful gaze with the guilt and sorrow of his own. "I had no choice, John, please…I speculated, and correctly I might add, that Moriarty's associates would keep watch on you and strike if the slightest indication of my deception were to be leaked whether to execute their contract to Moriarty or simply to keep themselves protected from me. You had to believe it for your own sake. I told Molly because I had to. I needed her, and mostly, I could. They weren't watching her. Why should they? I never gave the slightest indication that I trusted Molly enough for this. I would have told you immediately but I would have put you in danger. And I would never do that," he ended, his voice incredibly subdued.

"Hmm, okay, okay," John hummed to himself whilst riveting his eyes on his shoes, shuffling them in agitation. "Say for a second that I believe you, so why have you come back now?"

Sherlock sighed. "Because your safety has been compromised. You didn't know the truth about me but you were still trying to catch the criminals anyway. Getting in their way, like always." His grin was filled with pride. "And they didn't like that. They tried to run you over with that Rolls today, after all."

Abruptly, John's head whipped up in alarm. "How did you—wait the man in the…sweatshirt, of course…with Molly. Why am I surprised? You saved my life but you didn't even have the courtesy to say hello. Just for future reference, when in disguise, don't wear your regular dress shoes with jeans and a sweatshirt. It gives you away."

Molly gasped.

"You didn't actually infer that it was me though…" Sherlock griped under his breath.

Molly spun on him, ignoring his comment. "I told you not to wear those shoes!" she rebuked the detective who instantly grimaced.

"It was either that or risk inheriting an unspeakable array of bacteria from those atrocious, too-small sneakers left behind by your so-called _former boyfriend_." The last words were thrown out with obvious disgust. "Thank you very much, but I decline. I'd rather take a chance on the stupidity pervading this city."

Molly's hands shifted uneasily to her hips. "_John_ figured it out!" she countered.

"Not entirely. And what of it? It's John Watson, he doesn't count. He's a rare example of intelligence."

The said doctor's insides warmed. He couldn't help but smile at this uncommon compliment from the great Sherlock Holmes.

The young pathologist was struck dumb by Sherlock's tender evaluation of his friend. Why was she going on about this, anyway? Arguing about a stupid thing like shoes. They still had a lot of work to do, loads to discuss. "Oh, never mind," she caved, taking a deep breath and returning her attention to the smaller man. "John, there's no need for you to be upset, okay? We've told you practically everything now. He never meant to hurt you, and it's in the past. Come on, both of you. It's getting late and we're in a public place. We better continue this at my place."

With that, Molly Hooper turned her back to them and plodded to the door without a second glance to make sure they were following. She already knew.

The band of three crime-fighters bundled up, and in Sherlock's case covered up his face the best he could with hood and scarf, before sneaking out into the cold and the late-night streets of London. Hastily, they made their way to the Tube station with Molly in the lead. John and Sherlock walked side-by-side, as they had always done a thousand times over, the soldier's march falling into an easy rhythm with the brilliant detective's long fluid stride. At once, John's step felt lighter and his soul practically exultant at the full realization that his friend had been resurrected from the dead and was beside him, alive and well, just like he had been dreaming for three very long months. The world was suddenly brighter, the air crisper, and above all else, that burdensome venom of loss in his veins had been dredged and the dagger of grief removed, the wounds vanished as if they had never existed. All would be well from now on. If he could keep that blasted man in his company and breathing that is…but who could ever rein in Sherlock Holmes?

After they had settled in at Molly's little cottage and had tea, they discussed what was left to be done to rid themselves for good of Moriarty and his endless company of vindictive accomplices; and most importantly, to clear Sherlock's name. The future was beginning to look promising, and not just for the case. It was so endearing to Molly as she watched the boys interact, their mannerisms complimenting each other and their minds falling into perfect sync, knowing what the other will say or do before it occurs; even where one would move, the other would invariably follow. Right then she understood, they were always meant to be best friends, even unorthodox brothers. Sherlock's chink-less confidence and carefree attitude that she knew so well were ebbing back and John's chipper demeanor was breaking free of its hollow shell. Her heart glowed. How could one have ever coped without the other? She would ensure that they would never have to experience it again.

By three o'clock, Molly excused herself from the party against her own heart's desire, feigning fatigue when in actuality she longed for the men to be alone to clear up what brittle grudges were left between them if any, and her presence was merely in the way. But before she selflessly retreated, she dug out an untouched, high-quality bottle of rum that a neighbor had lavished to her in an effort to welcome her to the block and had not yet broken the seal—not really her flavor of poison—and presented it to the reunited pair.

"For your celebration. Have it all, if you like. Goodnight, boys," Molly said, seeing with delight the detective's and doctor's eyes light up with gratitude and thirst for the strength of it after such a trying day. They deserved it. But Sherlock's behavior was…different as he took the libation from her, his hand unaccountably lingering on hers for a moment too long, his piercing eyes holding hers with actual warmth. She could feel her cheeks burn and her insides melt. Hoping to avoid further embarrassment, she directly plucked her black kitten up from where he lounged beside his namesake and dashed to her bedroom, shutting the door most of the way behind her.

Urging the young animal to stay on her bed and not try to escape and bother the men—which took a great deal of coaxing and treats—she lay down in bed listening to John and Sherlock as they reminisced and made much of her gift, passing it between the two of them, she guessed, sharing their alcohol just like everything else in their lives. She smiled to herself.

"Is it true then?" John asserted through the haze of the rum, becoming more serious. "What Molly said, about why you jumped?"

Sherlock grunted an affirmative. "Every word. Except for the bit about the shoes."

"Now that's the Sherlock I remember," John snickered for a moment before his good humor soured again. "So…so you did all that, going to such lengths to fake your death, hiding from everything that…kept you from boredom, and risked death and injury from the pavement…all just to save me?"

"Yes, John. I would have done even more if I had to," he stated with rock-solid conviction. "I would be lost without my doctor. You know the secrets to cure a hangover, don't you?"

"Of course. But you don't imagine that I'd ever spill them to you."

The detective snorted. "Oh? And what would stop me from observing the particulars of your concoction in the morning since we will be plagued with the same malady?"

"I'll mix the ingredients in the loo and lock the door. You'll never know," John said in a sing-song voice.

"I am Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson. Did you somehow forget? Do you think a cheap, shoddy bathroom door will hinder me from getting what I want?"

"I don't even think God could do that."

Molly giggled into her hand so as to prevent her guests from hearing it flood precariously from her lips and desecrate their gloriously playful banter. But she quickly sobered once her sitting room, out of nowhere, fell into tense silence.

"I'm sorry I hit you, sort of," John mumbled.

"Hmph. I suppose I deserved it."

John sighed, a sound that contained all the careworn exhaustion and harrowed emotions that could have rivaled a country after a world war. "Your…despicable brother once told me that your career could have been so much more than it is now, Nobel Prize worthy; you could've even been free of the stupidity of social interaction, yet you went down the path of a detective. You chose to save people's lives. He didn't know why and neither did I. I think I know now though."

"Oh?" Sherlock pronounced with more curiosity and less callous condescension than either of his spectators anticipated.

"It's rather simple really. The renowned Sherlock Holmes always puttering about, making himself into a complete tosser, boasting that you're some heartless machine and showering everyone with insults as you do is all an act. It's your defense mechanism, all to prevent yourself from getting hurt. It's true that you love being right and are obsessed with showing off, but you could have done that a thousand different ways. No, uh-uh. You apply your spectacular intelligence as a consulting detective because you actually _care_ about people. Yes, you heard me right, I said that you care. The Tin-Man has had a heart all along. Don't look at me like that. You want to help them; you like to reach down just when they are about be swallowed by something depraved and lift them away from the edge of peril. It makes you feel good inside. I've seen it in you behind all those walls, so don't waste your time in denying it. How's that for a deduction?"

After a minute or two Sherlock finally gave his response, "For the record, your analysis is illogical, ill-conceived, and self-fulfilling. It's beyond my capability to feel or experience any degree of sentiment. Unofficially, even if such nonsense were true…Let's keep that between us, shall we?"

What was happening? Was Sherlock admitting to having _feelings_? How could that be? He must have been more tired and relieved by John's presence than she had assumed. Not to mention, very, very drunk...

"Mycroft also said you wanted to be a pirate," John said with an undercurrent of amusement.

Nothing. Dead air ensued, full of taut awkwardness. And perhaps unspoken anger.

"He...what?" Sherlock deadpanned. "How could he possibly-! That is utterly and unequivocally ridiculous! Even as a child, I was mature for my age."

"Sherlock," John soothed. "I know you were. I wouldn't be surprised if you wore nothing but little black suits and silk shirts at the age of three, conducting experiments instead of playing outside," he teased light-heartedly. "But don't worry, okay? It wouldn't...taint your image or pride or whatever, if that's what bothers you. Frankly, it would make you seem...better as a whole, I think, if you did want to be a pirate."

The consulting detective's response came out in rapid-fire: "No, it wouldn't, would it? Why would it?"

"Who wouldn't want to be a pirate? They're rather cool."

"Really?" Finally, Sherlock's tone betrayed a begrudging smile. "Well, I suppose I could admit this once to having indulged in the naive childhood dream of piracy years ago... But keep that secret to yourself, all the same, if you please."

"My lips are sealed. If you trust me enough with all of this, that is…" John's words petered off in doubt.

"Believe me, John, I trust you. With my life."

Silence once again. One emitting a far different atmosphere than before.

"I've missed you," John murmured so low and hoarse that Molly had to strain to hear him. "I've missed my best friend so much, Sherlock, more than I could ever say," he choked. His declaration was uttered with such torment that Molly's eyes pricked with sympathy and pain of her own.

"And I you, John," Sherlock's velvety timber rumbled with unheard-of feeling.

John sniffed. "Never do it again or I'll make you sorry. And, er, thank you for saving my life today. I owe you…again. And thank you for being my friend, Sherlock. I don't know where I'd be without you."

"Same here all around, John."

Molly stayed awake as long as her body allowed her, but eventually she had to give in once her eyes drooped too insistently to be denied. And so, she drifted off into a dreamless sleep with the background music of their quite remarkable rendition of "A Pirate's Life For Me" and of their laughter, the high schoolboy snicker of the doctor harmonizing beautifully with the low baritone of the gorgeous consulting detective, her kitten's ears pricked and eyes yearning to be with them all the while.

"I know, Sherlock, I know. Me too," she whispered then fell under the spell of slumber.

ↄ∞ↄ

Once, just before dawn, Molly awoke to go to the loo, but first she checked on her friends, hoping that they had not yet left and that they were all right. Creeping into her sitting room, she peeked over the back of her sofa in the white glimmer of the moonlight to find Sherlock lost to the world, sprawled on the cushions, one arm above his head, the other resting on the shoulder of one John Watson who had fallen asleep with his back to the sofa and his head slumped back on the detective's hip like a pillow, his mouth hanging open. Molly grinned. She never thought she would ever be witness to Sherlock overcome by physical needs. Then she quietly slipped a soft afghan over first the dark-haired angel and then on the blonde-haired one before leaving them to their peace.

When Molly next saw the light of morning, it was with a violent start, indeed.

Loud footsteps and the sound of a bump preceded a momentous crash.

With a gasp of panic, Molly shot out of bed, her sheets tangling in her legs and almost making her trip, but she managed to fly out of her room and down the corridor with only marginal bruises. What could be happening? Could Moriarty's henchmen have tracked them down already? Oh, no! Is John in trouble…Is Sherlock?

Upon reaching the doorway of her sitting room, she skid to a halt, her mouth gaping open with the overpowering sense of being in a dream, it was that unbelievable.

"Avast, ye maties, and shiver me timbers. Argh!" John growled with an exaggerated rasp as he and Sherlock bounded carelessly from one piece of furniture to another, each decorated with slapdash scarf hats, towel baldrics, and doorknob hooks. They danced around, slashing skillfully and mercilessly at each other with cutlasses—an old pink umbrella and her fireplace poker, respectively.

"Oh, come on, John!" Sherlock shouted in exasperation. "Be less obvious with the lines than that, or this will be tedious...and maybe next time, you'll have to find someone else to do battle with…"

"Hey, that's not fair!" John complained back. "Fine, I'll do better, then."

Prancing past the lamp that was interred in pieces across her carpet where it must have tumbled to cause the loud noise that woke her, the detective then sailed across the room on the swivel chair from Molly's computer desk, with her black kitten nestled in the crook of his arm, held protectively against the side of his chest, the animal looking absolutely and blissfully content in the excitement and favored company of the great Sherlock Holmes. "Oh, the cleverness of me!"

John was after him, hot on his heels, slapping the tall man's back with his umbrella-sword. "That's _Peter Pan, _you clod! Just stick with _Pirates of the Caribbean_, eh? It's cooler…and less gay."

"Yes, yes, people talk," Sherlock muttered irritably through his breathlessness.

Finally recovering from her shock, Molly advanced into the sitting-room-turned-pirate-ship, making her presence known to her guests without further ado, eliciting glances from her energetic boys, glances that first expressed surprise then embarrassed remorse once they realized what havoc they had created in her lovely endowed cottage. They even straightened their postures and concealed their weapons behind their backs in belated innocence.

Obviously, Sherlock had unraveled the mystery of John's miracle remedy for hang-overs, whether by stealth, force, or generosity. Though she suspected it was the latter.

Pretending a pique for only half a second—for the smile that she was uselessly fighting against would give her away anyway—Molly relinquished the pretense before sidling over to her computer. She fiddled with the keys until the _Pirates of the Caribbean _soundtrack began to pound through the speakers. The mousy pathologist hurdled over the sofa so that she was floating upon the springy and old-fashioned cushions, her hands clutching at the bosom of her pink cow-print pajamas in melodramatic alarm, her face whimpering. "Oh, Commodore," she whined in an overly-high voice, her hand batting air onto her face. "Rescue me from this murderous pirate, Captain Sherlock Sparrow, or he will stab me and I shall never again behold the dawn of another day!"

No one moved for a full minute as Sherlock and John's brows furrowed with their disorientation then evolved into wide eyes and a long exchanged glance between them in silent communication. In the same instance, the corners of their mouths slowly curved upwards into sly devilish smirks.

"I shall save you, my lady!" John cried.

"But first, unhand my baby, you fiend, before he gets unintentionally skewered..." Molly pleaded, no acting necessary. Sherlock seemed perplexed until Molly mouthed "cat" at him and pointed to his arm. With a brief eye-roll and reluctant nod, Sherlock handed over the treasured kitten to his loving owner who received him with relief, petting him with a gentle hand to calm his mews of protest. Molly clicked her tongue. They were so alike.

In sync with the recorded beat of the drums and orchestra, the inseparable duo charged at each other, their cutlasses intermittently parrying and stabbing toward each other's' legs and chests, seeking victory.

So many wishes were fulfilled and impossible dreams granted that day: the dead arising, friends reconciled, affection rare as gold or jewels unearthed. Even being a pirate.

**Alert: There will be a chapter 9 coming to wrap things up, even though I said there wouldn't be...**


	9. Wherever You Will Go

**Hello, once again, Sherlockians! Here is my next chapter. It's more of an action-oriented piece than the previous ones. Finally, Sherlock and John have their day. Vengeance abounds!**

**There will be one more smaller chapter after this, more of an epilogue, if you will. Then I will be moving on to other Sherlockian fanfics to help cure me of this dreadful Post-Reichenbach Distress Syndrome. **

**As always, I do not own Sherlock in any way. The BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss do a brilliant enough job without my intrusion. Although that doesn't mean I won't beg profusely to be present on the set for Series 3...**

**Please review! Your opinion is much appreciated! **

Chapter 9: Wherever You Will Go

_If a great wave shall fall_

_And fall upon us all_

_Well then I hope there's someone out there_

_Who can bring me back to you_

_If I could, then I would_

_I'll go wherever you will go_

_Way up high or down low_

_I'll go wherever you will go_

-"Wherever You Will Go," The Call

* * *

"Ready?" The smooth voice of Sherlock Holmes, free of fear and oddly comforting, flowed with a puff of air to the cold-bitten ears of his flatmate and best friend.

John Watson's response was charged with excited determination, given without hesitation. "More than ever."

The deep sky of night shrouded the outskirts of London, rewarding the two colleagues with greater protection and stealth whilst they crept from behind the cover of a decrepit garage and galloped headlong across a deserted street, the taller man's long dark overcoat billowing about his legs like the cloak of an errant knight and the smaller one jostling a little behind with the confident march of a soldier.

A pock in the road appeared just ahead of them and Sherlock leaped over it with lithe grace. Unfortunately, John was clumsier as he followed, his landing forcing his teeth to grit from the pain in his knees which still ached from his collision with the pavement during his latest near-death experience involving a Rolls only two days before. Ever since then, he and Sherlock had holed themselves up in Molly's charming cottage after their long-awaited reconciliation, planning their final confrontation with Moriarty's web of criminals—when they weren't imitating pirates, irritating the young pathologist, or laughing over tea, that is.

Since the streetlamps had long been neglected, they were guided by nothing more than the sprinklings of stars overhead as they made their hastened way to an abandoned hotel which, despite its large filthy "For Sale" notice and faded placard displaying the hotel's name, looked suspiciously kept-up. Beforehand, Sherlock had glanced up at those clouds of galaxies that glowed dully overhead as they amassed and coalesced into beautiful swirls and colors. Colors! Who knew that stars had colors? Blue, green, yellow, faint orange…He never saw such a thing before considering he rarely ventured far from the reach of central London's light pollution, and never cared about it before either. Yet, he appreciated their beauty now, knowing he might never return alive again to 221 B Baker Street. Then he wondered idly what their names were, the constellations, and what significance they pertained to in the grand scheme of things since he had deleted that from his mind's hard drive some time ago. But, of course, that kind of data was useless in the cases he took, especially this one…well, almost all. Perhaps, John knew what the tiny suns were called, as any army man would. It would be useless to ask. Still…

Their lungs were gasping at the chill air and their legs burning from the effort of their speed when they rounded the rear entrance of the beige-bricked building and slipped into a rubbish-strewn side alley where the fire escape was hidden in the deeper part of the shadows. Without the slightest falter, Sherlock bounded onto a Dumpster that smelled like vomit and rotting remains and hopped straight up to grab the bottom rung of the fire escape ladder, promptly pulling it down towards his thin torso and mounting it. John replicated his actions, though with far less agility, and soon they were both racing up the rusty metal staircase and onto the hotel's roof.

Only three months prior, Sherlock had plummeted off the brink of a parapet not much different from this one, risking death and the solidity of his own intelligence in order to save the three people that mattered most to him. Moriarty's sadistic designs enforced that Sherlock would die by his fall. Instead, Sherlock was now climbing back up from that "fatal" climax on the pavement, as it were, to exterminate the consulting criminal's legacy once and for all. A sardonic smile played across Sherlock's angular features. The irony of the situation was not lost on him, at least.

The detective and his doctor slithered through the rooftop doorway and quietly descended a concrete stairwell, coming to rest beside the access door marked with "Level 2" painted in gold cursive beside the doorknob.

"The majority of the guards will soon be relieved for the late-night shift, leaving only three rather more experienced mercenaries remaining to contend with. We have ten minutes at most before we are at liberty to make a move," Sherlock predicted in a discreet tone, lifting his arm and pulling back his sleeve so he could check his watch. "For now, we wait."

John took a moment to catch his breath. He leaned against the wall beside the gaudy crimson entryway, evaluating what Sherlock had just said and what it implicated. "You-You've been here before then." It wasn't a question.

"Obviously," Sherlock responded with only mild annoyance.

Brow bent with skepticism, John refused to let it go. "Well…how did you, exactly? I thought you were hiding out at Molly's so no one could recognize you…Wouldn't someone have seen you? Or at least one of Moriarty's_—_"

"Oh, John, have you learned nothing?" Sherlock interrupted, voice clipped with full-blown aggravation now. "The key to true disguise is hiding in plain sight and Molly's leftover collection of failed relationships ensured me of that. People are too stupid to look more closely at the world around them. They'd be amazed if they truly knew the secrets people keep and tell so easily, unintentionally and without words."

The ex-soldier snorted. "Yeah, I know. You've told me enough times."

"Perhaps you should listen."

John affectionately shook his head.

The fluorescent light above their heads blinked on and off a few times, fracturing their view of each other. Careful to keep his distance so as to avoid unfriendly notice, Sherlock spied through a small window in the door that peeked out into the hotel proper, his eyes riveted there as he flipped up the collar of his dark Belstaff coat, encasing his blue-striped scarf and long pale neck with the expensive wool material. Trying to look cool, John knew. Consequently, a grin began to spread over John's face and his heart lifted. It felt so good seeing the great Sherlock Holmes in his signature uniform again. Oh, it had been far too long, indeed.

Two minutes passed before Sherlock gave in to pacing, but still kept flashing his sight back onto that window every second, like a predator lying in wait for its prey. Nerves willing and iron-fisted, John's hands fluttered and fingered the Browning hidden in his waistband.

"Did you phone Lestrade?" Sherlock queried through the interim of silence.

"Yeah, called him and told him to be here in an hour, like you said."

"Which leaves us with fifteen minutes at most to get what we need out of him. Hopefully, it'll be enough."

John laughed under his breath.

Sherlock's head whipped toward the doctor, a frown of confusion marring his face. "What is it?"

"I'm pretty sure the sight of you alive and well will buy you some leniency from Greg."

"We'll see," Sherlock uttered in seriousness before a small smile tugged helplessly at his lips. The two men exchanged a knowing glance. Their lovable Detective Inspector would be surprised to say the least, and John was looking forward to seeing another person's reaction to the walking dead standing before him. After what John had been through of late, he was in desperate need of the amusement. He still couldn't fully believe that he had gotten his wish, that Sherlock had come back and he was on another of their thrilling adventures together after he thought he had lost everything for good. Even with Sherlock's arrogant surliness and rude jabs still as barbed as ever, John couldn't be happier to have his best mate back. But there was still something he had to say, something he realized he never had a chance to confess before it was too late, to the man himself and not to an empty burial plot and a black gravestone. Tonight may be the last stroke he had to speak openly to the detective, especially if their plans went south…

John's throat tightened and he tried clearing it, to no avail. Suddenly, he was gripped with an overwhelming sense of urgency, not to mention nervousness. The unfeeling, contrary sod wasn't going to like this. But it was now or never. "Sherlock, I, erm, I need to say something before we go through with this. I should have told you this a while ago, but you're not exactly an easy person to compliment…"

"Hmm?" His gaze refused to move away from the door, his absent-minded un-interest all too familiar to his flatmate. John's heart withered knowing that one syllable meant he wouldn't listen.

"Sherlock," John said more sternly, a little louder. His palm struck out, pressing the air, a gesture that was distinctly his, showing that he meant business. "Please."

Finally, the detective turned to John, knowing that tone just as well. It couldn't be avoided then.

Ignoring Sherlock's irritated sigh but heartened by the look in his eyes that had become strangely attentive, John stared up into those unearthly ice-blue orbs and unhinged both mouth and soul. "Before we crossed paths, I was alone for a long time. I had friends and family, but none of them seemed to…connect with me at all somehow, they didn't understand me or I them. Nothing seemed right. I was in a bad place even before the war. But then you came along. And it was like I had known you forever and I was just biding my time, surviving from one worthless breath to another until you paraded in with your…dramatic coat and cheekbones and narcissistic condescension," John rubbed his face and laughed once to himself. "We just sort of clicked, as different as we are. And I know you don't believe in heroes"—at this Sherlock's eyebrow's shot up—"but you saved me just like you saved all those people with bombs strapped to their bodies and guns pointed at their heads."

Sherlock rolled his eyes dismissively. "Oh, John, the melodramatic doesn't suit you…"

"No, Sherlock, listen, I mean it. I know all too well that you're not keen on hearing the sentimental rubbish. But I have to say this, not only have you given me what I needed, what made me feel useful and worthwhile with all the mysterious cases and chasing down bad guys but…but you've also given me the true kind of friendship that I've never had before, that actually means something. I can just…be myself and be accepted. And for that I owe your more than I could repay in two lives. You're the best man, the best _friend_ I've ever known, and no matter what happens, you'll always be a hero to me. Everything has been and will be worth it because I believe in you. I would not be the same without you. And for that, I would follow wherever you lead, even to the mouth of hell." Pausing with a swallow, he took a deep breath to take a stab at steadying himself. "Look, all I'm saying is...thank you for being my friend. There. I've said my piece. I'm done now," he finished lamely with a shrug of feigned nonchalance.

Once the soft echo of John's heartfelt disclosure receded, silence prevailed. Stolidly, John bored his hazel eyes into the floor like he wanted to drill a hole into the tiles with them, a blush of sheer embarrassment coloring his cheeks. What had he just done? Fearing the revival of that soul-wrenching regret, John needed to expose all that the wretched man meant to him, he knew that. But it was bloody _Sherlock Holmes_! A reincarnated Spock who made cold indifference into a lifestyle. Emotions were like pebbles under his feet, not worth his time or notice. Not only that, but he also hated them when they were pelted into his face. He would be disgusted, John guessed. What was he going to say? Anything, nothing? The detective's loyal companion was used to his blunt mockery, he could handle that. But what if Sherlock dropped him, then and there? How could he go on? What was he thinking?!

It was quiet for far too long, it was beginning to grate on him. It had been too long, Sherlock should have said something by now. John couldn't bear it anymore, he had to know…

With deliberate slowness, John turned his eyes up to Sherlock's face. At first, John thought that frustrating expression of impassive observation was in its usual place, and perhaps it was, but it didn't last for long. For the smallest instant, the mask fell away. A sort of bleak, almost vulnerable melancholy shimmered across his angled face, like would a child's be when abandoned, but was overtaken by a tiny unassuming smile. It wasn't the one he used to ridicule or when he knew something that no one else even fathomed. No, it was so very different, even genuine. But most of all, it revealed a deep, fulfilling contentedness, in the world around him, in himself, that John had never seen in him before. Suddenly, he wondered whether Sherlock had ever felt that brand of happiness in his entire life. At last, John's words had gotten through to him, penetrated that steely composure and ghostly heart. Strangely, Sherlock's gladness was swiftly becoming his.

Just as Sherlock opened his mouth to make his reply, the sound of a car engine drawing near outside stopped him. They froze, their eyes instantly flicking to the stairs as though they could see through the walls to the street below, then they flew to each other's and stayed there briefly before Sherlock stepped up to the window again, a square of bright light from the hall making a halo around his pallid face which was now slightly flushed with tigerish anticipation. Was there even a hint of vengeance there? "That's likely them, by the pitch of the engine: Rolls-Royce, late model. Friend of yours," he joked darkly with a sidelong glance at the smaller man. "Have your gun ready."

With the complex and unmanly emotions of their exchange already draining away, forgotten in the sudden flood of adrenaline, John reached for the back of his trousers and unsheathed his gun whilst Sherlock yanked on his gloves and adjusted his coat, eyes still glued to the door. "Bring on the inner pirate, yeah?" On hearing this, Sherlock laughed lowly once.

John tightly gripped the Browning, the feel of it giving him confidence and strength, just like he always did in Afghanistan, during cases. But this time wasn't the same.

The criminals were on their way, the wankers who tried to smear him over a manhole like butter over bread, who aimed rifles at him from a distance, who helped Moriarty destroy Sherlock…A great wave of anger hit John squarely in the chest, dissipating any anxiety he had harbored about this reckless storming-of-the-castle. Recollections of the lengths he had to take to survive, the pain that he felt after Sherlock's fake death, all rose up and flashed across his mind one after the other. They were going to pay.

Muffled voices could be heard beyond the wall, coming closer. John's heartbeat heightened and his stomach clenched.

"Three seconds," Sherlock whispered as one leather-encased hand carefully pushed down on the door handle and the other splayed out onto the cold metal below the window. John counted the time out in his head until he ran down to one. Right after, Sherlock thrust the door outwards just as heads could be distinguished through the glass. As fast as a blender blade, the door swung out then stalled as if it had smacked something. John heard a guttural groan right before Sherlock charged into the light of the corridor, John right behind him, his gun held high.

Vaguely, John took note of the beige carpet with its swirl-designed borders and out-of-date wallpaper of the hotel's interior before he focused on the three men that were in front of them: one was crouching on the floor with hand to his bleeding face and the other using the wall for support, the other two were still up, untouched…still a threat. That was all John could register before the flurry of action ensued.

Both brown-haired and tall, the pair left in the battle toted pistols at their hips and assault weapons clinging by straps to their backs. But after they had recovered from their shock of Sherlock and John's invasion, their fingers were almost at the triggers. Guns were no good then. The last thing they were after was a standstill when their time was limited and their backup was delayed. So John immediately let his uplifted arm wielding the Browning to relax and simply followed Sherlock's lead which entailed colliding directly into their enemies. The doctor and the guard tumbled to the ground, John using the other as a landing pad before scuffling with him, his fists ready, willing, and experienced lunged out, targeting the softest parts of the body.

Sherlock, however, proved more elegant in his duel. The consulting detective twirled, knocking the criminal's gun out of his hand with his elbow before bowing to avoid the subsequent punch which enabled him face-to-face with his mark: the guard's legs. He swept his hand behind the idiotic man's knees with a karate chop then rose again as the criminal's limbs buckled and he sunk to the carpet with a hiss. After scooping up the assault rifle from where it fell, Sherlock bashed the side of the lackey's head with his own weapon, sealing his defeat. In the same moment, John rewarded the other with the same outcome using nothing but his hands and the acrimony that empowered them.

"John, get rid of them," Sherlock commanded, nodding curtly toward a nearby housemaid's closet. There was not a curl out of place on his head or a speck of dust on his classy threads even after that.

"My pleasure." And it was true. John was more than happy to obey, dragging the incapacitated criminals over to the narrow door and stuffed them in, treating them like ragdolls and without minding whether they were smashing into anything along the way. Pain and prison were the only future for these buggers now.

Then, as John shoved a heavy armchair over to the closet to ensure that they wouldn't escape or come back for more, Sherlock straightened his overcoat with a toss of his head and strutted over to the blonde guard that had felt the full brunt of their formidable entrance. He was still on the floor but, to his credit, he was trying to regain his feet regardless of his watering eyes, gushing nose, and probable cracked ribs. Sherlock directed his sleek new armament toward him and, upon seeing it, the lackey slumped in surrender.

Deduction, as perceptive and impeccable as ever, took over as Sherlock flicked his ethereal eyes up and down, side to side, and even straight through the miscreant and all he was and all that was wanting in him. The conclusion, after combining those despicable ambitions and shortcomings with his present pain and fear, was promising. Little persuasion would be required to attain their ends.

"Now," Sherlock lilted, his smug face daring for a challenge but promising mercilessness. "Take us to your employer, or we shall have no choice but to dispose of you like your pals there. At once, if you don't mind, we have much to discuss with him."

Not two minutes later of nudging the bleeding guard to his feet and practically carrying him down the three turns of the hallway to suite 200, they burst through the double doors with the gold filigree ornamenting its molding to find an expensively furnished room. Modern black and white armchairs and sofas were ordered fashionably across the large sitting area with a wide flat screen telly hanging on the adjacent wall. An expansive gold four-poster bed and a mahogany-and-marble kitchen that was well stocked with French wines and Italian delicacies could be seen in separate alcoves to the left from where they stood. Everything, in short, radiated with extravagance and screamed of money enough to burn. And in that ostentatious bed was the hard-won heir of the Moriarty Criminal Syndicate himself.

The pathetically stubby, squirrely man lolled his red-thatched head and blinked awake once he heard his door slam to. But his grogginess was quickly blown away once he identified who had barged so rudely into his kingly chamber in the wee hours of the morning and the manner in which they did so, with one of his paid and competent mercenaries, weakened and practically crippled, escorting the intruders at gunpoint.

He bolted out of bed, wearing nothing but his silk pants and a horrified expression, just as another head popped up from the duvet. It was a woman, with the creative unmentionables and heavy make-up of a prostitute, who then proceeded to shriek at the top of her lungs.

The genius detetive's whirling brain rapidly took in his surroundings, past the wealth and luxury and straight to what mattered. There were ancient death masks from Greece, Rome, South America, wooden and metal, gaping out from their sporadic placements along the walls. The consulting detective smirked.

Subtly handing off his recently acquired assault rifle to John at his back, Sherlock gradually approached the red-haired man with arms held out in front of him, his mouth solemn and eyes wild.

Suddenly, John was afraid. What was his friend doing? He was much too close to their enemy, much too un-armed. He could be killed. "Sherlock," John cautioned, clutching at his black sleeve.

Momentarily, Sherlock glanced back to John, the detective's face conveying more assurance than his words. "John, I know what I'm doing."

John nodded once. He trusted his flatmate's judgment, but upraised the black rifle and his own Browning at the ready, just in case, watching the guard in the corner of his eye. "If you even _look_ at him wrong, I'll decorate the lovely furniture with your insides," John snarled under his breath to the wounded guard who sagged beside the doctor's feet.

Sherlock floated toward the crime boss who stood stock-still in disbelief and panic. "You know who I am? Who I was?" Sherlock asked in a voice unlike his own, but rather wispier and mellow, almost like a…ghost.

Oh. John understood now. His lips tightened automatically to keep himself from laughing out loud. He couldn't have a bout of the giggles violating their one slim chance to get out of this with not only their lives, but what they needed to bring these sods down and clear Sherlock's name. It seemed much too easy.

_Let's hope this works, _John thought to himself with a wordless prayer.

The red-haired suspect paled visibly. "Sher-Sherlock Holmes," he stammered. "But you're—you're supposed to be dead!"

"I am. I am dead," Sherlock lied. The melodic note veiling the usual timbre of his voice transformed his confirmation into a chant that even sent a feeble chill up John's spine. "Your mentor made certain of that. But I have returned, just for you."

"Wha—" the criminal gasped.

"You helped me die. And now, you have tried to kill my friend here," Sherlock gestured at John with a dramatic wave, his face and voice darkening with full-scale, otherworldly retribution. "I have come back to settle the score." Now he was only a metre away from the man, the latter backing up into his bedside table, jostling its contents and yelping out in surprise. "And if you don't leave him alone, if you don't confess all you know of the truth about Moriarty and all his sins to authorities tonight, I shall haunt you for the rest of your life."

This brigand, who had either been hand-picked by Moriarty himself or was powerful enough to rob others of the coveted throne of crime, had abruptly been whittled down to a whimpering, cringing mess just by the implication of a supernatural manifestation. Everyone had an Achilles' heel, Sherlock just wished his wasn't so ridiculous. But, if the vital results were obtained, the means would be sufficient. And, he realized in the midst of his production, this _was_ marginally fun. Who knew that he would revel and shine in the role of a specter?

Starting from a distance, sirens wailed down the street, converging and steadily growing closer. "Better decide soon, before I change my mind. You see, I've never been very patient. And be assured, I will never be this generous again." A mad, ravenous smile slashed across Sherlock's chin. "It would be my great pleasure to torment you for all eternity…"

By the time the police arrived not five minutes later, Moriarty's secondhand man had already broken down, rendered to a babbling, whimpering child who winced at his own shadow. Through little effort and clever tactics, he had become thoroughly willing to spill more than enough to free Sherlock from the world's doubt.

The one and only Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective who had gone through hell and back against the relentless games of his nemesis, watched his life and career fall apart around him, and abandoned friends and family and all he adored to fake his death in order to survive, was finally crossing the threshold of his much-sought comeback. But all of the galling discretion and inflictive deception was almost worth it once he and his best friend became witness to Scotland Yard's reaction to Sherlock's expectant presence—an unpredictable and shocking thing, indeed.

The ordinarily cruel eyes of both Donovan and Anderson projected open widely enough to be painful as they came to a screeching and staggering halt in suite 200. Mouths impossibly ajar, they let their investigating instruments plummet to the carpet, their bodies all at once as still as statues. For once, they were speechless. John never imagined that they were capable of shutting up, but there it was. John turned his face away in order to hide his broad smile of amusement, a smile that vanished once the D.I. himself ambled into the hotel room.

Lestrade was about to chew out his partners and demand for John to tell him what was going on, until he beheld the tall, lanky figure at the doctor's side. Everything was quiet whilst his transparent thoughts flashed across his brown eyes and square face: surprise, disbelief, confusion… acknowledgement. Before he promptly fainted.

Once Greg had come to with much slapping of the face and cold water from an ice bucket dumped on him, it took them a full hour to convince all three of the truth. But eventually, after all was fully recounted by both John and Sherlock intermittently and a lot of yelling and swearing was expelled, they were begrudgingly convinced. Then drained, sore, and no longer willing to face anything else but a pillow, Sherlock and John retreated to Molly's cottage where they hoped to scrape up some vestige of rest and relaxation. However, they were severely disappointed.

Under a drizzle of rain that had just broken through the haze that covered the stars, they ran down the pavement that led through Molly's suffering garden. Whilst rushing into the warm, dry haven of shelter, John urged Sherlock to come home to Baker Street. "I will, in a few days…" Sherlock conceded cryptically.

John shivered, trying to wrap his shooting jacket closer to his neck to prevent more water from soaking his shirt. "Few days? Why?"

But John was prevented from the cure to his bewilderment and anxiety.

The young pathologist, looking ragged and frantic with panic, met the two men as they traipsed through the door. "And where have _you_ two been?"

John and Sherlock balked, one shamefully down-casting his eyes, the other braving the conflict with resigned blankness.

Molly blocked their path down her dimly-lit hall, hands on hips and small face ferocious. They were going to get it…

"Wait, hang on, Molly, didn't you know about this?" John broached timidly before shooting a glance at Sherlock whose conflicted tenacity and lack of denial gave him his answer. The doctor sighed and braced himself for the dam to split.

"I knew about some of it, yeah…" Molly sputtered, her eyes never leaving Sherlock's. "But what I did _not_ know was that you two were going into that horrid place _alone_, without help, not to mention tonight! I didn't even know you two were gone until I got home from the lab to find an empty house. I waited like an idiot for you to come by or phone me, worrying myself sick over you! Did it not cross your stupid male minds to warn me about this beforehand? I had to hear it from _Greg_, just now, of all people. You could've been tortured, you could've been _killed_! I have done everything to keep you alive, why can't you stay that way?"

Abandoning her rant in favor of taking a long breath, the pathologist vainly strove to calm her anger. Instead she continued to fume on the spot, stubbornly ignoring John as he explained to her that they had made sure that they were prepared to take on Moriarty's men, that they were completely competent and Molly's hysterics were unfounded. His endeavors to soothe her were without success.

Molly felt cold tears escaping down her cheeks and she bit her lip to try to arrest them. "You could've at least said good-bye," she choked out before disappearing into her bedroom, shutting her door with a considerable bang. Both of the men flinched.

"Why didn't you tell her?" John grumbled, still staring down the hall after Molly.

Sherlock didn't give a retort. He merely glided down the corridor, into the sitting-room, and sat on the sofa to remove his polished shoes. John stayed on the threshold for a moment before trailing after the detective and repeated his question. "Why didn't you tell her…or-or call her, or leave a note? Huh? Answer me, Sherlock Holmes!"

The subject of John's abuse sedately removed his coat and scarf and draped them over an armchair before he saw fit to oblige his friend. "Because, she might have called Lestrade too early. Everything would have been for nothing."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Damn it, Sherlock," he murmured heavily. "After all she's done for you, don't you think you can trust her by now?"

"Obviously," Sherlock hissed before ruffling his perfectly-coiffed curls with his long fingers.

"Yeah, and _obviously_ she'd do anything for you, like, I don't know, risk unemployment, prison...her heart. I don't think keeping her mouth clamped and staying at home is too much to ask. I think she's had enough practice. So why didn't—"

"She might've followed us," Sherlock whispered, his voice strained.

Once John pieced together what Sherlock said and what it implied, he was floored. He couldn't believe his ears. "What…what do you mean? Are you saying, _you_, Sherlock Holmes, that you purposefully avoided telling Molly Hooper all about your clever triumphs, didn't give her the chance to worship you, all because you were afraid that she was going to be in danger? If I didn't know any better," He released a barking laugh, shaking his head. "I never thought I'd see the day…"

Sherlock's dark eyebrows knitted together, his eyes clouded. "What are you talking about?"

"Sherlock Holmes, I think you're falling in love with her."

The dark-haired man's head snapped to attention, his ire too quick to be innocent. "What? Don't be stupid!"

Words laden with sarcasm, John mumbled, "Uh-huh, right. Well, I guess it's for the best then, that you aren't, because you're about to lose her."

The ex-soldier trudged toward the front door but turned back once more. "I was a bit doubtful before, but now I know for sure. Miracles really do happen, after all." And before Sherlock could contradict him, John was gone.

Less than an hour later, whilst restlessly wandering their flat alone, John received an unforeseen text from Molly's mobile that allowed him to calm and made his heart squeeze in elation. It read:

- _I know nothing of miracles or heroes. But after what you said about me, I find I feel the same about you. I'd be lost without you by my side. The gratitude of your friendship lies solely with me. Thank you, John Watson, for being my best and only friend. -SH_


	10. Breathe Me In

**So this is officially the last chapter I'll be doing for this particular story, though probably with a few tweaks here and there to spruce it up. I will be doing other separate stories soon, including a Halloween oneshot for this gracious fandom and these fantastic cast of characters. **

**What follows is pure and unadulterated Sherlolly indulgence, regardless of perhaps a trifle character deviation, may Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss forgive me. Hope you enjoy! Thank you for the wonderful reviews and support for my first fanfic!**

**Once again, as my disclaimer, I do not pride myself on owning the glorious thing that is Sherlock BBC. Isn't that why we're all here?**

Chapter Ten: Breathe Me In

"_Sex doesn't alarm me."_

"_How would you know?"_

Sherlock Holmes knew he was dreaming.

He knew it without a doubt or much strain invoked upon his impressive deductive powers because what he was experiencing had already happened, and would never happen again. And yet, the acknowledgement of experiencing something fictitious did not impede a fear that felt very real, even to a high-functioning sociopath. In such a setting as the subconscious, there is nowhere to run.

Once again, in this dream, he was standing atop St. Bart's Hospital on the fateful day that he leapt off its roof to fake his death, to save his friends. Everything he abhorred about it rebounded back to besiege him once more. Just as before, his dress-shoe-clad feet were hovering on the thin ledge, the one stronghold remaining before there was nothing but air and gravity to accommodate him, nothing between him and the ground but time and hope. Everything was in place, his allies at the ready. All was as he had planned so perfectly, except for one thing. As he peered down to the dark pavement below a murky sky, more desolate than it had been in actual fact, a pesky sense of…dread seeped like a fog of poison over the walls of ice that encased his dormant heart before moving on to take hold of his mind, his most prized possession.

As always, Sherlock trusted his intelligence to be flawless in its calculations, in its ability to do what was necessary and complete its appointed task with success, but even a master archer could be made low, defeated, by an unanticipated breath of wind. First, as quiet and unimportant as a trickle of water, distress over his possible death and a sorrow for all he would lose approached him idly before it swelled to a flood and threatened to drown him. It was happening all over again, that distasteful fear, that defeat, that regret concerning all the things he would never accomplish, all the idiotic criminals that he would never ensnare under his all-knowing wrath. The cruelest twist of all, he would be separated from John.

If he wasn't about to lose his life, he would be losing all it contained. In essence, he would lose everything else.

Finally, after all those years of loneliness, he had found a friend who accepted him for who he was, followed his lead without question, and coaxed out genuine laughs from him when no one else could; laughter that was provoked by neither bitterness nor mockery, almost unheard of from a Holmes boy.

John appreciated him, what he was capable of. The amusement, the affection, the companionship from this one person, all taken away from the detective before he could truly appreciate them. It was far more difficult to let go of life when it had just been accorded to you. If only he had been allowed more days like that with his best friend, irrational though it was.

_I'm so sorry, John._

All those contemptible thoughts, those atrocious feelings, returned to him in this dream just as they had before. Only this time, there was no Moriarty with whom to parlay, no rubbish lorry to cushion his downward plunge. Only silence and dismay accompanied him.

Before long, he began to tremble beyond control, tears poured down his face and, before he could stop it the ground rose up to meet him. However, on this particular occasion, he did not jump off willingly or even feel it when he converged with the concrete. Amazingly, he did not die. Instead, he was able to look up from where he had landed and observe as first John then Molly materialized up on the rim of the roof high above him, taking his place on the threshold of the darkness beyond. Confusion swept over him once he glimpsed a faceless man in a new-season Westwood suit making his appearance behind them, then terrified agony trailed in its wake once this unidentifiable stranger reached out and carelessly nudged them over the edge.

_Rumble._

Alarmed, Sherlock made an effort to cry out in illogical and belated protest, but suddenly his voice failed him. And when he tried to rise and aid his friends, his body would not respond to his brain's commands, no matter how desperately he wanted it to. Next thing he knew, John and Molly lay prostrate on the pavement at Sherlock's sides, their limbs contorted in unnatural positions, John's blonde head and Molly's russet one bashed in whilst their lifeblood sprung from the subsequent fissures to pool beneath them. Their gaping mouths and glassy, soulless eyes were what drove him over the brink into madness.

_Crash._

With a harsh intake of breath, Sherlock shot up from his sleep. It took him several tedious moments of rapid blinking and bleary analysis to recall that he was not at St. Bart's or 221 B as he had expected, but in Molly's guest bedroom being suffocated by her feminine bedclothes, precisely where he should be after collapsing into them the night before.

Rain pummeled down on the cottage roof and rilled down the panes of the window behind Sherlock's left shoulder. A flash of scolding light radiated against the walls, making him squint and impatiently wait for its inevitable progeny—cause always produced effect, lightning would soon have its—

A growl of thunder ripped through his ears, a considerable sound as predicted by the length of its delay that made the foundations of the house and all of London quiver, he supposed.

Oh. That was what roused him.

Wretched thunderstorms! They always gave him nightmares. Much of the time, his rational mind resisted all manner of inner illusions, for he had once been unbothered by the sorts of sentiment and remorse that disturbed a lesser mind's stasis. But when storms loomed, all bets were off. And ever since he was faced with the probable deaths of his friends, the delusions had become more vivid, more frequent. Unfortunately, he now had fears to project.

The consulting detective shook his head in disgust. He was being utterly ridiculous. In a vow to himself, he refused to be lowered to just another ordinary human being. How pathetic.

He listened to the rain for a few minutes whilst sitting up against the white wood headboard of the twin bed, wishing vainly to steal back his one opportunity to recover suitable rest after chasing his enemies for so long, no matter how much it frittered away his valuable time. At long last, Sherlock and John were able to track down the last of Moriarty's men and easily do away with them only a few hours ago. Threats on the two friends' lives and the black mark palled over Sherlock's once-renowned name would soon be eradicated. Then why did he still feel like something wasn't complete, that there was still something left undone?

Sleep was long out of his reach now.

After swiveling his keen eyes about the small room allotted to him during the most vital of his cases, he could just distinguish his treasured belongings in the darkness: his skull, riding crop…his violin. With a rare sense of longing, Sherlock ached to return to his home on Baker Street and to his devoted flatmate, but he had unfinished mysteries yet to decode. If only he could pinpoint what exactly they pertained to. There was a strange sense of emptiness, of an unfulfilled need gnawing at him from within, and he didn't have enough data on how to make it go away. Or perhaps, he did but was disinclined to consider the results…

Stupid. _Stupid!_

Groaning and huffing in utmost frustration, Sherlock rubbed the thin fingers of both of his hands along the crown of his head, tousling his dark hair. Then he fluidly rose to his feet to don his blue dressing gown and silently drifted out into the shadowy pastel-colored hallway, intending to put on the kettle for tea and grind out a rhapsody or two on his violin so he could properly think through what he had neglecting to solve of late. At least, that was what he had a mind to do before an unforeseen circumstance made him falter. Halfway to the kitchen, he was passing Molly's room when he detected the pathologist's restless stirring and sweet voice emanating from the other side of her door. The hounding winds unleashed by the downpour almost obscured the sound, but only afterwards did he realize he had been listening for it all along.

The tall man hesitated in front of her barred entryway, slowly angling toward the wood paneling so he could try and make out what she was saying, or gain some idea of her state in case she needed anything…if she needed him. Straightaway, he got his wish.

"Sherlock," Molly mumbled weakly.

Abruptly, Sherlock's pulse performed a high-spirited dance in his chest in response to hearing her name him in unconsciousness. How supremely odd…He frowned, brow furrowed at his body's unfamiliar reaction, wondering why this was happening, perturbed at what it could mean.

"Sherlock, Sherlock," Molly resumed, her tone distressed, even painstakingly racked. "Please, don't hurt him, I'll do anything. No, stop…"

Ah. Now he understood, obvious as it was, it should not have taken him so long to decipher the situation.

As though by some enigmatic connection between them, she was suffering from nightmares, just as he had been. Ones about him…in danger. And she wanted to save him. That irritatingly delightful sensation, the one he had begun to feel once he invited himself into her home—no, ever since she had floored him in her lab before the Fall, when she noticed him trying to hide his sadness from John—and consequently every time Molly attributed an act of kindness or asserted ill temper, or simply ran into him in the cottage corridor, was once again beleaguering him from the inside, warming his glacially numb heart, reaching the unreachable. Thanks to a former army doctor and his landlady, he had already been made aware of that inner light—that _emotion_, for what it was, no matter how foreign—for affection. But this was of a different brand, and a bit stronger. All of which returned to him again in a lush wave; all at the thought of her dreaming about him.

If only there was a way to douse it. There was one sure method, but the concept of hurting her, of damaging the unexplainable liking she harbored for him was inadmissible. Bit not good, as John would say.

No. Not only was she his source for the chemicals and body parts required for his countless experiments, and anything else for that matter, but she was also someone he could turn to for anything, someone who would listen to him and not call him names or tell him to piss off. Someone who cared for him no matter what, made him feel important without expecting or needing anything from him, even if he failed, perish the thought. To him, she did count, and he counted to her. And for some inexplicable reason, she understood him, knew him, and liked him anyway. She could see right through him, every time; see who he truly was and respect and admire what she found there.

But why was she having bad dreams about him?

Of course, she had been bothered— infuriated, really—by the fact that he had eliminated the remainder of Moriarty's henchmen, as well as the foreshadowing of peril over his head, without giving her fair warning. The entire notion was barmy. How could her knowledge of his death possibly prevent it? No, it was better that way. He couldn't have a frantic, selfless Molly risking her life when he had other things to concern himself with at the time. To be frank, the thought of the young pathologist sneaking into a building that had once been crawling with a horde of trained cut-throats supplied him with chills. Revulsion and horror moved him enough to shudder involuntarily. The unforgettable images in his slumber's visions of just ten minutes prior returned to him in full detail, the mangled bodies and the blood, making the detective come to a stark conclusion: he could never let that happen. Ever. And not just when it came to his cherished flatmate and friend. Staggering as it was, the possibility of Molly gaining the same fate proved just as unpleasant, or rather, unbearable.

Maybe he should wake her, and not just for sake of having peace and quiet for dabbling on his violin or a voyage to his mind palace. A part of him wanted to console her, make her feel safe. What was happening to him?

More than anything—exceptions being stupid people and boredom notwithstanding—Sherlock detested sentiment because it was human, a weakness, and ordinarily he couldn't make sense of it or even cared enough to try. And yet, here he was, letting sentiment drive him, reveling for just a moment in the way it flowed through him like honey. It made him feel less hollow, less like a machine. It made him so happy. Never before had he felt like this, so alive, so fulfilled and airy like he was capable of flight, and yet so miserable if he were to walk away. Not to mention lose access to that amusing feline she called a pet.

But he had to rid this repellent emotion from himself once and for all, fortify himself against it and without delay. He was better than this.

Just as Sherlock was about to pivot upon his heel and determinedly make his escape without looking back, another blazing shaft of lightning slashed down from a cloud and struck home somewhere not too far away, burnishing the walls with a white-hot glare and heralded an earth-shaking roar of thunder that was even more deafening than before. Right when it reverberated through the cottage, a shriek rang out from the pathologist's bedroom.

Without a thought, the detective barged through the door and rushed to Molly's bedside, his pulse heightening erratically with a sudden flood of panic. Molly was thrashing about wildly in her blankets and crying out, still locked in the worst imaginings of her mind's fears, Sherlock concluded. Her black kitten was already there on the edge of the mattress and the violence, his back arched in concern and fright. Directly and with a careful hand, Sherlock snatched the animal from the war zone and deposited him safely onto the floor before hastening over to Molly's pummeled pillow.

"Molly," he pleaded with stern urgency. "_Molly_, wake up, it's just a dream." _Don't be stupid, girl_, he added wordlessly.

He took hold of the young woman's delicate shoulder and, gingerly yet firmly, shook her until she bolted upright with a sharp gasp.

"Wha—" Molly mumbled as she tried to recollect her bearings. Her eyes darted frantically about the room, trying to remember where she was, before falling on the man sitting before her. "Sh—Sherlock?" Hand flying to cover the side of her face, Molly closed her eyes in relief. It wasn't real then. Thank heaven.

Still clutching her shoulders, Sherlock queried, "Molly, are you all right? You're just having a bad dream is all, brought on by the storm probably..."

Once Molly realized what in actuality must have happened and that Sherlock bloody Holmes was in her bed in the middle of the night, staring at her from scant centimeters away, her mercilessly shy disposition coerced her to blush profusely. Fortunately, the darkness was shielding her reaction, her scraggly hair, her rumpled pajamas; however, her neck had grown so hot she wouldn't be surprised if the detective could feel it from there. He tended to be that spot-on with details, after all. So she skirted slightly away from him, purposefully enabling his grip to loosen and his arms to drop limply to his lap.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," she finally managed to stutter out as an answer. "Sorry for waking you. I—I didn't mean to, I know you don't sleep much. Just being stupid, you know…you can go back to bed now. I'm fine, really."

Unable to look the glorious man in the face, she riveted her eyes onto her favorite silver-and-crystal lamp that was situated on her bureau. The action was oddly soothing and its placement was conveniently opposite from where she wanted most to stare but couldn't bring herself to do it, not only from embarrassment but residual anger from the evening before. He didn't really want to be there anyway. Separation was wisest. She just wished she could make her heart stop fluttering about like a mad thing in her chest and her hands to calm their trembling.

"Are you sure?"

He was still close, so close she could easily lean in or stretch out an a hand and make much-needed contact; so close she could smell the shampoo she had bought for him, and past that she could detect the scents that were definitively, invariably _his, _of wood and familiar chemicals, of clean London air just after rain, of a very masculine muskiness that was so sublime and pleasurable that it made her feminine appetites reel.

_Not now, Molly, settled down, don't be a fool about this_, she scolded herself internally._ He would never forgive you for pushing him. You would lose what little of him you have, especially since he could feel nothing for a silly girl like you…_

Molly nodded shakily, her sight still averted. "I'm used to being alone." She bit her lip then continued, "You'll be leaving soon, back to Baker Street now that this mess with Moriarty is all over. There's no need to feel obliged to help me with what's not important. You don't owe me anything."

Sherlock was unmoving, silent for an oppressive amount of time. "…What was it about, the nightmare?"

Molly conspicuously cleared her throat. Not a change of subject that she preferred. "I don't remember much, doesn't matter. I know how you hate the emotional rubbish, and it'd be worse for you to put on a show for nothing. I don't need to be comforted like a child…I don't need you. I'm fine now, you can go."

Standing slowly, as though with uncharacteristic reluctance that puzzled Molly beyond words, Sherlock made his graceful way to the door. Molly's heart sunk. The tell-tale sensation of being choked and the pricks in the corner of her eyes alerting her of the coming tears. Mousy, awkward Molly Hooper rejected once again. But was she really expecting Sherlock Holmes to do anything else? Hopeless dreams had always been the bane of her existence, why change now? She just wanted to be by herself so she could have a good cry and be done with him once and for all, even knowing full well this would be the one to break her for good.

The storm's wind picked up with renewed vigor and malice, rabidly lobbing pellets of rain against the roof and outer walls, effectively compelling Molly to start and the detective to wonder with only partial seriousness if a tsunami had unaccountably arrived at their door.

But before Sherlock set foot in the corridor, he hesitated. A strange response, one he had begun to feel upon entering Molly's bedroom once had seen her in her disheveled appearance, that he had rarely experienced, was abruptly consuming him, taking the fore of his thoughts and concerns, which seldom occurred when it came to his body's inclinations. For him, the intellect always came first, the rest was just transport. And yet, here he was, being overtaken by…sensual excitement, with desire and _need_…for Molly. He sucked in a breath and fisted his hands. His control was slipping, but he realized he didn't mind. Not in this, not anymore.

Then it hit him like a hammer blow to the head, or a thunderbolt from the sky: How many more chances would he get like this? What if tomorrow or the next day or the next a criminal smarter than Moriarty comes 'round with Symtex or a volley of rifles that finally carried out what Moriarty couldn't and the world's only consulting detective found himself with no way out but death? He never bothered about it before, of course, but when it came to Molly, he wasn't sure he could come to his end without trying something first, just once.

Against what he would have ever expected of himself, against his rational side's will and better judgment, Sherlock performed an about-face, efficiently reversing his course and into the unknown. What had gotten into him?

"Sherlock?" Molly asked, confusion riddling her voice but saying no more as she watched the bridge of Sherlock's long nose wrinkle in distress and eyes a little afraid. Without warning, his face cleared and his beautiful ice blue eyes fixed intently onto her and warmed in that hypnotic and alluring way of his.

With deliberate slowness, Sherlock approached her and spoke; his velvety baritone intense and making her shiver with its sudden feeling. "It does. It does matter. _You_ matter, Molly. I've never wanted to care. Caring was just a distraction, it was energy and mind-space wasted on something I considered useless and ambiguous. I couldn't feel all that much, not really, and I never wanted to. Then you came along, with your low self-confidence, painful timidity, and plain face—no, no let me finish," he quickly placated once Molly frowned before scowling with a hint of anger at his blunt description of her.

"Now, wait, Molly. That's how I saw you at first through my cold deductions, but then…then you surprise me, again and again. Even though I am cruel to you and invade your work and life in general, you still like me, still help me with whatever I wanted, treat me like a friend, and like me against all your instincts and the opinions of everyone around you. You went so far as to risk everything to save my life, without question, without doubt. I have never understood why. And you knew it when I was in a bad place, when I wasn't okay whereas no one else suspected…you know me better than any woman ever has."

"Oh?" Molly objected. "But what about that other woman?"

Sherlock tilted his chin sideways. "Woman?"

"Yeah, the one that everyone thought had died right before Christmas, that Dominatrix, in trouble with your brother. You had seen her naked body before…"

The tall man slightly shook his head, his enchanting half smile lightening his sharp features just as he reached the foot of Molly's bed, bypassed it, and didn't halt until he returned to the pathologist's side once more. "Temporary fascination. When I first met her, she walked in on me without clothes to try and impress me, caring had nothing to do with it. She was just another game, a puzzle for me to work out. No, Molly, you mean much more to me. I've never…felt like this about anyone before."

"Like…what?" Molly croaked, swallowing hard whilst Sherlock paused expectantly, his knees grazing against her mattress. "You—you actually _care _for me? Hang on, if this is one of your heartless experiments, I'll—"

Sherlock broke eye contact with her for half a second, his brow furrowing in thought. "Ah, I suppose it could have been…Interesting."

Like a slap to her face, Molly realized that the notion hadn't even occurred to him. What was he after then?

As was natural, Molly stiffened and inched backwards as the detective bent down to her and climbed onto the bed without preamble. But he wasn't letting her get away that easily. Instead, he kept moving into her personal space until she was trapped by the opposite verge of her mattress. In disbelief, Molly was very aware of Sherlock now perched a hand's breadth away from her, his piercing eyes delving into hers, his breathing suddenly quickening to match hers. "There's something I've never done before that I would like to try now…"

"What do you mean?" Molly whispered jaggedly.

Long fingers hovered in the emptiness between them before they narrowed in on their destination: a lock of Molly's unremarkable brown hair. They stroked it for a moment or two before moving on to Molly's shoulder, caressing their way to the woman's cheek where her skin burned at his astoundingly tender touch. Her heart seemed like it was about to explode, it was thrumming that swiftly. Sherlock's face followed the path of his hand and, before Molly knew it, he was brushing his full lips with hers.

At first, the detective's venture was tentative, uncertain with his inexperience, and yet wonderfully soft. However, he was a fast learner. Before long, he was kissing her with the expertise of a prodigy and a fierce hunger that rivaled her own. Molly's spine tingled with pleasure as Sherlock's molten tongue appeared in her mouth. Mimicking his efforts wholeheartedly, their mouths dueled and coalesced as one. Giving in to a long-awaited aspiration, Molly couldn't resist raking her hands through the dark curls of the man who was affectionately attacking her, finding them as luxurious and glossy as they had always looked. It was all so much better than she had imagined.

They clung to each other as though welded together, hands unabashedly exploring each other's bodies after they were freed of their clothes and they were discarded unheeded to the floor. Sporadic flares of lightning illuminated the bedroom, allowing the couple to glimpse what lay beneath what was once concealed. Cracks of thunder echoed around the house but no longer intimidated them. So lost were they to everything else.

At the commencement of their merging, both Molly and Sherlock marveled at all the staggering emotions and superb sensations that came of it, filling what was once hollow and completing what had been left undone. Like one of the detective's experiments, their hearts and souls heated, foamed, and threw out sparks like colorful fireworks.

It was absolutely amazing.

But what was even more amazing was the fact that, once the next day dawned and the typical birds began to sing, Molly awoke with Sherlock still there, their legs tangled together in the bed sheets, one arm slung across her stomach and nose in her knotted hair, his deep, consistent breaths billowing the strands. For several minutes she remained there, basking in the new sunshine and savoring all that she recalled and all that she could witness now. She studied him as he slept, the black coils of his head, thin torso, and the muscles sculpted every which way. Her skin rippled with pleasure and heart skittered in joy once she permitted herself to believe what Sherlock had given her only hours ago. It seemed impossible…

But what would happen now? Had it been nothing more than a scientific curiosity or a trick, another means to humiliate and hurt her even more than usual?

Groaning, Sherlock's fingers twitched and his breathing changed, foretelling his return to the world. Molly gripped the edge of her duvet in anticipation. Oh, why didn't she just come out and say it? She was scared out of her wits. But her fears were not satisfied. On the contrary, the detective came to and blinked over at the pathologist, proceeding to give her a wicked grin. She hoped that was her answer since it was the one for which she had craved. Rising to his elbows, Sherlock's eyes traveled up and down her body, the passion and good humor lighting his crystal eyes as he did so, making her blush and her breath catch.

"I was wrong," he murmured.

The pathologist froze. "Sorry, what?"

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I was wrong, when I told you that your lips and breasts were small. After last night, I find them more than sufficient and worthy of approval."

In response of his praise, Molly felt as though she were flying in the clouds. She had never been so happy. Biting her lip, she sought to keep tears at bay.

"No nightmares?" Molly diverted.

"Not a one."

Molly never thought a person's initial early-morning voice could sound so…attractive. But then life was full of surprises. And she had learned long ago to never underestimate the miracles this man could achieve. Although a large part of her, mainly the shy and self-conscious side, screamed at her to shut her mouth, her more practical side overruled its avoidance. After all, it was better to know the truth sooner rather than later so she could more quickly overcome its consequences. Therefore, she decided to soldier on with a line of inquiry that had been plaguing her ever since she awoke. "So…er…may I ask what you thought of this…new experience you fancied to try?"

Bright eyes never leaving her face, Sherlock's smile deepened. "Extraordinary. Even better than solving a crime and catching myself a serial killer."

Her eyebrows skyrocketed to her hairline. "I don't believe you. And I also don't believe that you care for me…"

He gave her a look that bordered on a grimace. "Have you ever known me to lie about my opinion?"

"Oh. Well, I suppose not."

For the first time, Molly was permitting herself to accept the possibility that this, her most coveted dream, could be coming true. The vague sensation that could only come by discovering a secret stairway to heaven seeped into her veins like warm honey on her tongue. Acknowledging that Sherlock Holmes deemed her as not only more than an asset, a friend, or at least a mat upon which to purify his polished shoes, but also as a woman who deserved to share something so intimate and special with him, so _human, _for lack of a better word, was more than enough payment for all she had suffered and would suffer in the future, even if it lasted merely for one night.

Her inner celebration was interrupted as Sherlock stated in a nonchalant tone, "Besides, what man wouldn't fall in love with a woman who chose and named a cat after him?"

Molly's eyes widened in panic. She sputtered and floundered for a minute before she was able to get out anything more or less sensible. "What! How did you know that? I tried very hard to keep you in the dark about that—"

"Oh, Molly, do shut up."

Once upon a time, Molly might have felt a twinge of offense at his rash statement. But suddenly, she found herself able to fully see and comprehend the great Sherlock Holmes for the first time in all the years of their acquaintance, separating his intentions from his poor manners. It was not just because of a single night of frolicking through the sheets with this man, of getting what she had most wanted for so long, for them to be selfish and let go, but because he had finally decided to let her in. That was what made all the difference. Though sleeping together was, admittedly, rather a bonus…a very big, splendid bonus. Like a multi-million quid lottery.

So, instead of becoming upset, Molly giggled and cheerfully let Sherlock reach for her again, urging her back onto the pillows and promptly tearing the offending bedclothes out of his way. Without further encouragement, Molly sighed and let him kiss her most thoroughly, obliterating any coherent thought she once possessed.

"Drink up me hearty, yo ho."


End file.
